When the Flame Goes Out
by Alone in my Dreams
Summary: One flickering light in the dark, always threatened with being blown out, burns on.  Cinna and Portia―together, their lives and deaths.
1. Hovercrafts in the Night Sky

**1. Hovercrafts in the Night Sky**

She was pacing the space in front of him again, her footsteps echoing just a bit too loudly off the bland linoleum floors. "Shouldn't we have heard something by now? Honestly, Coin is always _so _insistent about being on time..."

Cinna reached out for her, fingers grasping her wrist. "Portia, look at me." His voice was firm, yet gentle.

She sighed softly and lifted her gaze to his. He smiled and let go of her hand. "I'm sure that they have everything under control." Pausing momentarily, he reached up to smooth a few loose strands of hair back away from her face. "Honestly."

Silence took over them for a few moments, consuming any words that they considered saying.

"And besides," he continued finally, "we have more than enough preparation for this."

"Maybe they had a point, though," she protested quietly. She didn't have to elaborate—they both already knew. Both of them had lost their parents about eight years earlier, in one of the bomb attacks on District Thirteen; but they were still fully aware that they'd been against this idea back when it was first presented.

"Maybe. I think that... if they were here, they'd understand."

"But they're not!" she pointed out. Her voice dropped in volume again after the outburst. "And they never will be."

She felt Cinna's arms wrap around her. "I know." Starting to give in to him, she didn't argue the point any further. It wasn't going to do any good, anyways. It wasn't going to get them out of District Thirteen, where they'd lived their whole lives; it wasn't going to stop the seemingly never-ending battle against the Capitol, and it most certainly wasn't going to prevent the seventy-fourth Hunger Games from happening in a few months.

Noting that she had dropped her gaze again, Cinna tilted her head up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Listen to me, sweetheart. What's done is done. Nothing we do can change that." When she didn't answer right away, he kissed her forehead, then pressed his lips against hers, the kiss soothing away her fears and bringing reassurance in their place, easing some of the tension that had settled between them.

"You're right," she whispered, drawing back from him. "As always."

A tight smile crossed his face for a fraction of a second, before it quickly faded. Then his expression turned quizzical. "_Always_?"

She nodded, grinning. "Yes."

Pulling her closer, he said, "I doubt that."

"Hmm, well, it's true."

"Whatever you say," he said, relenting. They let the silence take over again, merely holding on to each other tightly—as if clinging to these quiet, intimate moments would block out the war just outside.

Cinna slowly drew his hand up and down her back. "We should be going," he said quietly. "See if they want to start out early."

She nodded against his shoulder in vague agreement. Their compartment, which they were standing in, was already practically empty; they had no one left to say goodbye to. Nothing left to do to prepare, and yet, it seemed as if something were missing, denying them permission to leave.

He let his arms drop from around her, then tapped his hand under her chin. "Head high." The gentle reminder wasn't something that either of them was unaccustomed to—during their main training years, it was something constantly heard from their various instructors.

Twining his fingers through hers, he opened the door with his free hand, closing it behind them as they walked out, closing it on their past. Now it was time for whatever was going to come next—a future of unsolved puzzles and mysteries and questions never to be answered.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

The two walked down the narrow, empty hallway in silence. There just wasn't anything to be said, really.

Cinna looked down at their entwined fingers and sighed. "Love and war don't go together very well, do they?" he asked her quietly.

"No," she agreed, knowing full well what he was thinking about, "they don't."

Arriving at Command, she had barely knocked on the door when it was thrown open by none other than President Coin. The president nodded in greeting. "Soldier Adaline," she addressed, and, spotting Cinna just behind her, added, "Soldier Neyell. Please, come in. We were just about to send word for you two."

They entered the room and the door was swiftly shut behind them.

The familiar meeting room was now only occupied by them, Coin, and Boggs, seated across the main conference table from the other two. "Now, I do hope that you both realize how... vital tonight will be," President Coin started off. Normally, this would be the sort of statement that would elicit a response, but not quite in the tone that the president of District Thirteen used.

"Ah, here we are," Boggs put in as two new windows appeared on the table—one facing him and Coin, the other towards Cinna and Portia. Both windows were identical and fairly easy to recognize for anyone who knew what they were.

"Now, this—" he gestured to a ragged, thin gray line on the map "—is the Capitol border, naturally. Mountains around most of it, which'll be one of our main problems. _However—_" he carefully zoomed in on one of the tunnel entrances to the city "—_this_ is where you'll be meeting with Heavensbee."

He paused, then said, "Of course, we can't exactly land the hovercraft that close to the Capitol without being picked up by their radar, so we'll be landing about a mile outside the border. It should be a fairly clear route to the entrance—just along the train tracks."

"And, unless there are any questions, you should all get going," Coin added. "I wish you luck; and remember..."

It was a prompt, they both knew, and finished the sentence in unison: _"Succedunt omnino gratuita._" _Succeed at all costs._

"Precisely," the president said approvingly, clearly glad that they hadn't already forgotten the things they'd learned in their training. "Now, go on."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Boggs led the way to the Airborne Division without any more talk of what was to happen. After the primary security check, they were allowed entrance to the Hangar.

The three mounted the steps of one of the smaller hovercrafts in the rows to find the pilot waiting for them, and took their places. "You're early," the pilot, a retired commander by the name of Soldier Arden noted. "Didn't expect that."

"Everything happens early in Thirteen," Boggs replied. "Haven't you noticed?"

He didn't get much of an answer, as the pilot was already busy with one last systems check before they set out. And, then, "Everyone ready?"

At the others' agreement, the hovercraft doors glided into place with a small click, and the vehicle started to proceed through the tunnel system to the fourth airlift platform. Trying to avoid dwelling on the swift rise of the hovercraft, Portia forced herself to focus on reading one of the digital displays on the interior—_2200, December 21st..._

Once off the ground and concealed in the night sky, the majority of what remained of the hovercraft ride was spent in silence. Neither Cinna nor Portia particularly minded—it was an opportunity to think of everything that was to come, and what had happened already. Besides that, neither of them had ever been the type to break silence with small talk only for the purpose of there not being quiet.

After not a lot of time had passed, however, they were both starting to try and not think of what would happen shortly. Most would've viewed it in a more positive light—there had to be a bit more freedom in the world outside of The District, (one of the names used for District Thirteen).

They both knew what their assignment was: go to the Capitol and become the stylists for District Twelve, because they needed as many people involved with the Games to really be loyal to District Thirteen as possible. Few people knew the rest of the reason why, knew that it was because they were trying to select the tribute from District Twelve who would be the future leader of the rebellion. They needed to be from Twelve—the smallest, poorest, and overall weakest district would need the most encouragement to fight.

They would've been sent to the Capitol closer to the time that they'd finished their main training, but Thirteen hadn't had the confidence that they'd be able to launch a counter-attack, wasn't sure that there was someone eligible in District Twelve... but, now, Plutarch Heavensbee had found a few possible leaders in the population, and The District had become stronger.

But it wasn't long before the peace and quiet that had settled over them was interrupted by a jumbled, panicked shout over the pilot's radio.

It was practically incoherent and, in the other person's panic, already the words were a bit fast and slurred. The pilot, however, seemed to be a bit more professional and as the other person continued yelling things, was already hitting buttons on the hovercraft's control panel, setting it to autopilot, and then going to get something.

"What is it?" Boggs asked him, already seeming to be overly alert and on-edge.

"Glitch in our system," Arden explained hurriedly. "Capitol's picked up on our location. Monitors back in The District suggest we get out as soon as possible." By now he seemed to be using another feature of the control panel to answer the initial message.

"We can't abandon the mission," Boggs said. There was no doubt that the sentence was an _order, _and not a suggestion.

"Of course not, but the radar says that the Capitol's got hovercrafts on the way. _We're_ going to land right... now!" Back at the control panel, the pilot was already landing the hovercraft with a smooth, spiraling descent.

Now the retired commander was already talking very quickly, giving orders and explanations. "From where we are, we're on the right track, just a few miles further out than we planned. I've sent a message to Heavensbee with the update. Be careful, but you two—" he gestured to Cinna and Portia "—are going to have to get there for yourselves from here. The rest of us have to get back to District Thirteen!"

He handed them a backpack each, which appeared to be what he had gone to retrieve earlier. One of the doors slid open silently, and the two hardly had time to brace themselves before they were being edged towards the opening. "Go!" The command came in a lowered shout, and then they found themselves racing through the woods, the hovercraft nowhere in sight.

But the city landscape seemed so far away! Still, breathing and heart rates unsteady already, the two continued onwards, into thick forestry that seemed to go on forever.

There were the sounds of quiet footsteps not too far behind them, coming from the slight clearing that they had just gone through. Peacekeepers, probably having dropped out of the now visible hovercraft over the woods, which almost seemed to be following them. But maybe that was just their own hallucinating from paranoia.

It was almost too late by the time they realized that they were being followed, though, and they were left with very few choices. Taking off again deeper into the woods without being pursued seemed impossible. No time to find a real place to hide—there were trees, only trees. They found themselves left with only one real option—fighting back—when they were armed with only simple weapons and most likely outnumbered.

Or apparently not. Only two Peacekeepers did emerge from the clearing, giving them a fairly level playing field, and they didn't seem to be the most prepared either—also seemingly only armed with knives, themselves. It was the middle of the night, after all, so they probably hadn't had a lot of time to prepare when they were called in.

Cinna and Portia, intelligence and thirteen years of intensive training giving them an advantage over the two startled and unprepared Peacekeepers, easily overcame the half-hearted attack. They slipped through the search for intruders, using the skills of evasion that they had perfected over the years.

The hovercrafts overheard faded back into the air again, seeming to have abandoned the search, confused since they had lost the Peacekeepers' tracking.

The two of them continued trying to shake off their now invisible pursuers, changing their paths as often as they dared, never losing sight of the Capitol skyline just over the tops of the mountains.

It really didn't seem like that long until they saw the hovercraft becoming visible again in the distance, landing somewhere far off in the Capitol. Why had they gone back? Had they assumed that whoever they were tracking was dead already? Wouldn't they have noticed that the two Peacekeepers hadn't returned?

But eventually, the two were forced to stop when they reached the Capitol fence blocking the tunnel entrance to the city. Several feet high, electric... there was no getting past it. Silently, the two merely stayed very quiet and still, out of sight until they saw the wire barrier slide to one side.

It felt like eternities until that happened, maybe just because they were both still so on-edge after the brief battle, but the sky was still completely dark other than a gentle glow of light from the moon. From both of their places, the two of them watched as Plutarch Heavensbee emerged from nearby shadows before either of them moved into sight.

"Ah, yes, here you are," Plutarch said, almost a little too brightly, though his voice was still quiet, since they were in the middle of the woods. "Sorry about the time delay, I was in a Gamemakers' meeting when I got the message, and it ran a bit late, but... well, that's not important. What's important is that we're all here now, right?"

Cinna and Portia both agreed, and without another word, he led them back through the tunnel he had come through, punching a code in a control panel to turn the electricity back on and put the fence back into its place.

Plutarch continued to lead them through the darkness towards a large building. His smile was barely visible while he observed the reactions of the two newest Capitol residents as they tried to orient themselves with the city's layout. Maybe their constant sideways glances were just habit, or maybe they were curiosity. It would've been hard to tell.

Plutarch was explaining, very quietly, some of the last details that they hadn't yet heard. (Communication between District Thirteen and the Capitol wasn't always the best.) "We have an apartment set up for you. It has everything you should need, and enough money to last until you start being paid for being stylists," he said at one point as they walked on. They were already aware that it would be of value to have him on their side as a Gamemaker when they applied for the two District Twelve positions, but couldn't help but think that they should've been fine on their own, anyways.

The front room of the complex they'd been approaching was nearly empty except for one tired-looking Capitol citizen who was working at the front desk. She barely even looked up when the three of them walked in. "Stay here," Plutarch said to the two of them, gesturing to the area closer to the door that they'd come in through, and with that, approached the front desk.

Not too long later, he returned and handed them a stack of papers. "There—that's taken care of," he said. "Seventh floor. I'll see you both at your interview." And he exited the building.

The two of them were sure by now that he _had _to have some sort of experience with this. They made eye contact for just a second—the silent communication that they'd always been capable of—and then they started to head towards the elevator, arriving at the seventh floor just a few moments later.

Cinna flipped through the stack of papers until he found one that had their apartment number on it—_798—_and the electronic pass code to gain entry to it—_2173. _He led the way there, to the last door on the right, and then typed in the second set of numbers on the keypad. There was a quiet beeping sound before the door opened narrowly.

He handed her the stack of papers and closed the door behind them. Suddenly feeling tired, she set the papers down on a nearby coffee table. It was then that they realized just how exhausted they both felt—alone and without any immediate danger present. They'd both probably gotten a total of five hours of sleep within the past three days, and while that wasn't really any sort of record for either of them, it _was _enough to make sleep extremely tempting, combined with the fact that it was now nearing dawn.

"You should be getting some rest," Cinna said finally, breaking the silence that had settled over them.

"_I _should? I think that should be _we _should," Portia corrected him, not bothering to directly comment on the rest of what he'd said.

"I think I'll try and found out when there are interviews available first," he responded. Then he nudged her shoulder. "Go on. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Fine," she sighed.

With that said, she picked one of the bedrooms at random and walked into it, putting the backpack she still had from the hovercraft down as she did. The room did certainly did seem... Capitolistic. At least, to Portia, it did.

There was just so much technology—plus windows, doors, floors and ceilings that adjusted at your command. A control panel on the wall near the door she had just come through modified the lighting and temperature. Windows and mirrors were scattered everywhere, and all of the colors almost seemed just a bit too bright on the eyes at first.

Perhaps most of all, the size of it was positively captivating, especially to someone who had been used to sharing a simple, small compartment in District Thirteen. But here there was the main bedroom part of it, an attached dressing area and bathroom, and an outdoor private balcony behind sliding glass doors that were concealed by silken curtains. Absolutely incredible, and so completely like the Capitol.

Something not feeling quite right about just going to bed, Portia gave herself twenty minutes to shower and dress in warm pajamas that were much more comfortable than the standard District Thirteen uniform. (Though she did, in fact, end up going over her estimated time goal, seeing as it took her about half of that time to figure out how to work some of the technologies involved.)

And still, even after she'd turned off the lights and gotten in bed, Cinna still seemed to be researching the interview times.

She sighed and let her eyes fall closed, relaxing a bit after all the tension of the night before.

She didn't even notice his presence until she felt him settling into the bed beside her. "Must you _always _sneak up on me?" she asked him. He was the only one who ever could, after all.

"I thought you might've been asleep already," he answered her quietly. "Didn't want to wake you."

She moved closer to him, feeling his arms go around her automatically. "Get some rest," he instructed, and she gave in to the welcoming darkness of sleep.


	2. Burning Embers, Flying Sparks

**2. Burning Embers, Flying Sparks**

Warm morning sunlight seeped in through the windows, creeping up against the graying shadows of the room. Portia could feel the unfamiliarity of the space before she even opened her eyes. The soft lighting suddenly seemed too harsh and bright to be that of the early morning, and she found herself glancing up at the clock. It was just past eleven.

"That's a new record," she mumbled to herself. She still felt tired and was actually considering going back to sleep when she felt Cinna stir beside her.

He blinked a few times, his eyes coming to focus on her face. Then he smiled. "Morning, sweetheart." He lowered his head to kiss her lightly.

"Morning," she whispered back. Then, after a few more moments, she added, "Did you find anything about the interviews?"

"Yes; there are a few times open today. And tomorrow, if you'd rather wait."

"We should probably get it over with." Neither of them had ever particularly liked interviews.

"Should I schedule one, then?"

"If you want."

"In that case, we should probably be getting up," he said, absently stroking her hair with one hand.

She sighed, sitting up. "Probably."

It took both of them a few more minutes to really start preparing for the day. Already, it seemed, the slightly more relaxed atmosphere of the Capitol was starting to have its effect on them. No schedules, no uniforms, no huge rush to get to breakfast or training or Command.

Cinna had scheduled the interview for two o'clock, which gave them plenty of time.

The light and unhurried morning seemed to be interrupted by a knock on the door. The two froze for a second, then relaxed slightly, realizing it might've just been Plutarch coming to check on them. Still, it had only been a few hours...

As if by unspoken agreement, they both went to open the door; and it wasn't Plutarch that they found there. It was a Peacekeeper—the fact made obvious by the uniform—and one that neither of them recognized. "Hello." The word came out sounding something a lot more like a threat than a greeting, not helped by the fact that the last thing you wanted was a Peacekeeper on your doorstep after the sort of night that the two of them had.

Resisting the urge to simply say, "What do you want?" Portia answered, "Good morning, sir." Her voice was carefully even, not letting any fear or hesitation shine through. It actually sounded quite convincing, to her relief—only Cinna knew any better, feeling Portia slip her hand into his, something she almost always did whenever she was nervous about something. "Is there anything we can help you with?"

For just a moment, the Peacekeeper was silent, studying the two of them. Surely, they couldn't have seemed to be your average Capitol citizens, which was technically the only thing that someone should've been able to assume. But with the lack of alterations or Capitol accents, it was easy to tell that something just wasn't quite right. Cutting to the chase with an odd edge to his voice, he asked, "Did either of you notice anything odd last night?"

"Such as... what?" Cinna questioned carefully.

"Anything. Hovercrafts overhead, people on the streets at odd hours..." He trailed off, seeing their expressions. "No?"

They both shook their heads.

He seemed almost... amused? Then he said, "Interesting..." There was a slight pause as something that could almost be called a smile passed over his face. "I do sincerely hope that that is the truth, because if it is not... both of you will be very sorry for _lying_; do you understand?"

Portia dropped her gaze to the floor, something that she wouldn't have normally done in this situation, but figured that someone who had known nothing but life in the Capitol all along might've. "Yes, sir. We understand."

"I would hope so." With that, he started to walk off, and Cinna closed the door quietly, turning to face Portia again.

Sensing that she was about to say something, he shook his head, pressing one finger against her lips. She gave him an almost sort of confused look, puzzlement clear in her gray eyes, and in silent answer, he traced two fingers around her left wrist. It was an old and rarely used gesture of District Thirteen—one that you would learn in your early days of training and then quickly forget about until it came up again. Essentially, it meant, _Trust me_.

She still felt a bit confused, knowing that Plutarch had explained how they had checked the apartment so thoroughly to make sure that no conversations could be overheard by way of cameras or bugs, and even the walls were soundproofed. Then she heard the footsteps going down the hallway and understood—the Peacekeeper had stayed just outside to listen. Even with the soundproofing, there wouldn't be anything protecting the door. It was only at that moment that she first realized how pointless that seemed. "It should be safe now," Cinna whispered.

"How'd you know?" she asked, her voice still just as quiet.

"I didn't. It was a guess."

She nodded. "How do you think... _they_ found out?"

"There has to be a record of last night, Portia."

"True. So what do you figure we do about it?"

"Nothing to do, really," he answered.

Changing the subject slightly and letting her voice go back to its normal volume, she asked, "Are we still going to the interview today?" It sounded like an innocent enough question, but only if you didn't know why it had been asked.

"No reason not to, I suppose," Cinna said. And that was that.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

It wasn't a long time later that they were entering the Remake Center, where the interviews were being held.

The room that they were supposed to wait in seemed impossible to find—the ground floor of the Remake Center mainly consisted of the front lobby of the building and the stable for the opening ceremonies launch. The rest of the floors were per district. There seemed to be no logical space for the interviews.

"Portia, we could always just ask—"

"How many times do I have to tell you that we're not lost? I know exactly where we are."

"Oh, really? And I suppose you know where it is that we _should _be?" When she didn't answer, he added, "You're a very frustrating person, you know that?"

She smiled, finally spotting the beginning of another hallway that looked fairly promising. "I know."

He sighed and followed her to the interview waiting room.

"Told you," she said to him as they walked in.

They sat next to each other near the back of the room without any further debate. Silence settled over the two as they observed what was going on around them—not doing anything, just watching and listening and thinking.

The others seated in the chairs lining the walls, either in pairs or alone, mostly seemed to be engaged in conversation with those closest to them about what position they were applying for. It was fairly late in the "interview season", as it seemed to be nicknamed, and as both of the District Two styling positions were available, they seemed to be the most popular choices. From what they could hear, they were the only ones who specifically wanted District Twelve.

Portia watched the clock a bit anxiously as those with earlier appointments were called in at an agonizingly slow rate. _1:50. _She thought she'd never get used to the twelve-hour time.

Her eyes strayed to Cinna, sitting beside her and flipping through the records they'd brought from District Thirteen—the ones that Plutarch had managed to tell them they'd need for the interview. He seemed to notice her watching him. "I'm sure we'll be fine, Portia," he said softly.

She nodded, not adding anything else to the conversation.

Shortly afterwards, one of the Gamemakers was calling their names, and the two rose from their seats to enter the interview room. They sat again at a long table, just across from the group of Gamemakers holding the interviews.

The first few questions seemed to be basic interview questions. _"And what is it that makes _you _different from the other applicants?" "What kind of experience do you have?" "Why do you want to be a stylist?"_

The Gamemakers looked over the forms that they'd provided, each looking awed and certainly surprised when they reached the provided design samples. "I'd say that you certainly have the positions," Seneca Crane, the Head Gamemaker, said at the end. "But are you sure about the district? _No one _wants _Twelve. _We could get you into a Career district, Two maybe, if that's what you would prefer..."

"We're sure."

Looking slightly taken aback, Seneca answered, "Very well then. I wish you both luck, and we'll be in touch soon."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

It was around the same time the next day that they got the call from the Remake Center.

The phone rang during a not-so-rare quiet moment, and Portia had been the one to answer it. "Hello?"

The answer seemed to be a recording, giving information that she wrote down as quickly as she could until it ended. There was an option to have it all repeated, but she just hung up the phone.

"Who was that?" Cinna asked.

"The Remake Center, apparently," she answered. "We're supposed to 'officially' start working on Monday. And we also meet the prep teams first thing in..." She trailed off, checking her notes. "Room 1200."

"And the hours are?"

"Monday through Friday, eight to four." The answer just sounded flat more than anything else, like she was simply reciting something. Then she added, "We have to present everything to the Gamemakers on Friday."

"_Friday?_ As in _this _Friday?"

Looking slightly amused at his clear surprise, she replied, "Yes, as in _this _Friday. The twenty-ninth of December—that way the presentations are done before New Year's—"

"So what is it that we're presenting, if we only have a week?"

"All the outfits for before the Games. Opening ceremonies costumes, training outfits, and the ones for interview night."

"We're only even working this week, then. Other than the time before the Games," he observed.

She nodded in general agreement. "Yes. I'm sure that it'll be quite the week..."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

It felt like lifetimes had passed before it was Monday morning, though in reality it was just under forty-eight hours.

The District Twelve floor of the Remake Center proved to be easier to find than the interview room. In a similar style to the Training Center, each district had its own floor—District Twelve being the twelfth floor, Eleven being the eleventh, and so on.

At eight o'clock, Cinna and Portia were waiting in Room 1200, also called the Conference Room. It was the first room that you encountered after stepping off the elevator on the District Twelve floor.

But on this morning, the clock struck five past eight, and their prep teams were late.

"Should we start taking bets on if we're in the wrong place or if they're not going to show up for another half hour?" Portia asked at one point.

Cinna just smiled. "You have to give them _some _credit, Portia; I'd say that it'll only be twenty minutes."

It turned out that both of them were, in fact, wrong. It was only ten minutes later, a quarter past eight that their prep teams showed up. The two teams, consisting of three people each, both seemed very apologetic, babbling out excuses the second that they arrived which were barely comprehensible through thick Capitol accents.

Eventually, however, they followed Cinna and Portia's instruction and all sat across the table from the two of them.

The lack of respect shown by most Capitol citizens was certainly one thing that was very different from how things were in District Thirteen. They both decided that as it was their first day, they weren't going to push the issue just yet.

That first meeting was mostly introductions, with both of the stylists mainly focused on learning the strengths of each member of the prep team who would be working on the tribute that they were assigned. The one who would be prepping the future female tribute was the one that Cinna was working with—consisting of Venia, Octavia, and Flavius. On the other side, the prep team that would be working with the male tribute consisted of Landian, Daliana, and Angelique.

A few minutes after the conference had ended, and the prep teams had left the room, Cinna asked, "So... any first impressions of them yet?"

Portia thought for just a moment, then answered, slowly, "I think I've met seven-year-olds with better life ethics than those three." She didn't point out aloud that most of the seven-year-olds she'd met in her life were in their third, going on fourth year of intensive military training. "What about you?"

"They seem all right. Well-intentioned, even if they're a bit... misplaced."

She just nodded in answer.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Shortly after the meeting, they were in a sitting room on the District Twelve floor, discussing ideas for the theme they'd be using. Both of them had tried coming up with ideas during the two days they'd had before beginning their work officially, but neither had really come up with any good ideas.

Now the conversation had started with a series of questions.

"We're supposed to come up with something based around the district's industry," Portia said at one point. "So what district are we designing for?"

"District Twelve."

"And what's District Twelve's industry?"

"Mining," Cinna answered.

"Mining... what?" Portia asked. "Graphite? Coal?" The mention of "graphite mining" was definitely intentional.

"The district's industry is coal mining," Cinna said, sounding like he was starting to get frustrated. "Now will you_ please_ just tell me what you've come up with already?" he tried.

Portia just shook her head, smiling. "_And what do we do with coal?_" she asked, putting a particular emphasis on the question, though they both knew the answer.

Cinna sighed. "We burn it."

"Exactly." She watched him carefully, waiting for that one moment of understanding.

It took a second, but then he grinned. "Brilliant."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

There'd been little more conversation after the theme was set. Instead, they'd quickly agreed that for the opening ceremonies, synthetic flame would be the best way to fit their theme. Creating it, however, proved to be a bit more difficult and time consuming.

For the first trial, they came up with three chemical formulas to test and tracked down the materials.

The first actually burned; the second still gave off smoke. The last combination they tried simply didn't look real enough.

The two spent the rest of the first day experimenting, yet nothing seemed to work. Towards the end, though, they were fairly close. On the other hand, it was nearing midnight.

They were finishing the last trial of the day when Portia said, "I think we nearly have the right formula; it's just a few small things that need fixing, really..."

"True," he agreed. "But it's the small things that get people killed."

"Because we haven't heard _that_ enough."

Cinna smiled. "Also true."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

The next morning, the two agreed that they'd have to start on the interview and training outfits. "We can't spend four days on the synthetic fire and then have no time left for anything else," Portia had said.

So for the first few hours of the day, they planned out everything else that they'd need to work on and split up the rest of the hours they had left at the Remake Center that day. One of them would work on the synthetic fire while the other would be creating the training outfits, and then they'd switch in shifts of two hours.

He'd walked back into her office when it was once again nearing midnight. "The training outfits are finished," he said quietly. "Why don't we go home for tonight?"

"All right," she sighed. "I think the fire'll be done by tomorrow, anyways." Yet there was some part of her thinking: _Forget this. It's impossible. We'll just have to tell the Gamemakers that there was no way to get any of this done in time. _Neither of them ever gave up that easily, though.

There was still time, even if they didn't feel like re-testing the synthetic fire.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

On day three, they barely had any time to work during the morning. The day started with another meeting with the prep teams to give them lists of instructions for when their tributes reached the Capitol, and go over them. That was still months away, but the Gamemakers wanted everything to be ready far in advance.

After the meeting, one of the secretaries appeared on their floor of the Remake Center to tell them that their presentation for the Gamemakers would be at half past two on Friday. The times hadn't been set yet, but the Gamemakers had finally decided to start the presentations at nine, giving even the first pair to present an hour of preparation time. Each would last roughly half an hour, and they would be the last presentation of the day, as they were to take place in district order.

Their checklist for the day had nothing on it checked off by noon.

They kept the same routine that they'd had the day before, only that whoever wasn't working on the formula for the synthetic flames would be actually creating the opening ceremonies outfits.

Everything seemed to be a blur, nothing ever standing out. The world consisted of only deadlines and two-hour shifts and the burning of synthetic flame.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

It was right around seven when Cinna looked up and noticed her standing in the doorway to his office, looking excited and slightly breathless. "It works."

"What?"

She repeated the words: "It works."

She led him back to where she'd been working, and he grinned. A miracle had occurred; they'd gotten just the right formula, and the synthetic fire burned brighter than ever.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

They took turns sleeping that night. One would rest while the other worked on the interview outfits. It didn't seem like that large of a task at first, but they quickly realized that applying the reflective gems in just the right way to get the effect of being engulfed in flames was a near impossible thing to do.

It was nearing five o'clock in the morning the first time he woke on his own. The first thing he was aware of was confusion, going over the schedule that the two of them had set mentally. It was supposed to be Portia's turn to sleep; if it was almost five... he was sure of it.

He forced himself to sit up, stretching blearily. He couldn't remember being this tired since their last week of training. Walking into the main room of the apartment, he smiled when his eyes fell on her. She was fast asleep, collapsed over what she'd been working on. A single candle was burning low on her desk.

He walked over to where she was and shook her shoulder gently. "Portia."

"Hmm?" She opened her eyes slowly, tiredly, then made herself sit upright. "What?"

"Sweetheart, your shift was over almost an hour ago."

"Sorry," she mumbled, pressing her eyes closed again. "Just... not awake."

He smiled. "Clearly. Go get some rest—it's your turn to sleep, anyways."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

The day passed with work left to be done only on the outfits for the interviews. It was half past ten and she was nearly done when she heard him walk up behind her. "You know what your problem is?"

She sighed, and decided to go along with whatever he was going to say. "What?"

"You work too hard."

"Oh, really?"

"Really. Why don't you take a break—come up to the roof with me?"

She felt herself smile, standing to join him. "All right."

He wrapped an arm around her waist, and, together, they walked up the staricase that led to the roof.

When the door opened, cold night air washed over them swiftly. There was a light breeze, and it had to be below freezing.

He pulled her closer so that they were facing each other, reaching up with one hand to cup the side of her face. His fingers were slightly laced through a few strands of her dark brown hair. He brushed his lips against her cheek, then gave her a light kiss. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Her voice was so soft that no one else would've been able to hear her.

He let his face nuzzle against hers and said the first thing that came to mind: "Good."

Her hands were curled and resting against his chest; she could feel his heartbeat—steady, even, and soothing. There was a time she thought they'd never able to be this close without tension settling between them. "Cinna..."

Not giving her time to finish the sentence, he gently pulled her into a long, slow kiss. Thoughts ran through her mind, but nothing that struck her as important just at that moment. Here, there was only love, fire, and the desperate wish that they'd never have to let go of each other.

"Portia." He met her eyes, his gaze soft and loving. Suddenly, the rest of the world melted away, the cold seemed distant, the war something that couldn't truly hurt either of them.

She trailed her hand down his cheek and neck, letting it rest on his shoulder. "Don't you ever wish things were different?" The words escaped without permission. Neither of them had ever questioned the existence, the importance of the rebellion. It was always just a part of life.

"Yes. Of course I do. You know that." Some part of her did, but it was surprising to hear. He always just seemed so... certain, so sure that what they were doing was the right thing. He pressed a gentle kiss against her forehead. "But they aren't."

It was an infuriating thought, yet his voice calmed her. "I know." There was something pained in her voice, the acknowledgement that there was nothing they could do to change things.

"Sometimes I think things were meant to be this way," he said quietly.

"What do you mean?"

He sighed, shaking his head. "I... I can't explain it, really. It's just that things always seem to have a way of working out. Almost like they were set up that way."

"Like there has to be something better out there," she suggested. "And more important, than just this. Above it all."

"Yes," he answered, smiling. "I think you know what I mean."

Right or no, there were still threats hanging over them, questions yet to be answered, and an impending war about to be set alight like wildfire.


	3. When Time Catches Up

**3. When Time Catches Up**

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes," he agreed.

It was the day of the presentations, and the city was covered in a light blanket of snow. More delicate flakes fell from the silver-cloud-coated sky, the Capitol streets looking so serene that you could've been tricked into thinking that someone had meticulously placed each and every snowflake.

Portia could still remember an old tradition from their training days, of watching the first snowfall of every year in the part of District Thirteen that was above ground.

So peaceful, and yet so misleading.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

The day seemed to drag. Everything for the presentations was finished fairly early, and there was nothing left for them to do.

The vast District Twelve floor now seemed stuffy and restrictive. She paced back and forth in her office, knowing that there was nothing that would make the time seem to go faster. _12:00, 1:00, 1:30..._

Another hour left. She didn't think she could stand it.

Still, time would pass, wars would be fought, and harder things to endure were still to come.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

The presentation room was instantly nicknamed by the two stylists as "Command". That was the only thing to compare it to, really. Only, instead of the usual District Thirteen monitors, the screens held the day's schedule, notes from past presentations, statistics for who watched the Games and when, in the Capitol. The same group of Gamemakers that had held the first interviews were gathered around the main table, with the two stylists standing across from them. "Please, begin whenever you're ready," one said flatly, clearly glad that this was going to be the last presentation of the day. Some of the others were a bit more attentive, remembering their interview.

"Well, starting with the opening ceremonies," Cinna said, sliding an open sketchbook across the table to the Gamemakers, "we decided to take a slightly... different approach on the district's industry." _That's one way of putting it, _she thought.

As the Gamemakers looked over the sketches, confusion passed over their faces. "And, exactly how... I'm not quite sure I understand... what is..." The jumble of questions came quickly, and the two stylists smiled. This was going exactly as planned.

Portia set the capes on the table and pulled out one of the lighters that the two had made—it had just the right combination of chemicals, but was missing oxygen. She held it to the fabric and lit the synthetic flame. Within seconds, it occupied most of the costume, but didn't stray onto any other materials.

Nearly all of the Gamemakers jumped backwards out of their seats; several screamed. Every single one had a look of complete and utter shock.

"It's perfectly safe," she assured them, swiping her hand through the fire. "See?"

The commotion started to settle a bit, the Gamemakers took their seats again, wide-eyed and staring into the flames. "How in Panem...? What? Are you really sure that...?"

A few hestitantly copied her gesture, reaching out to touch the fire, then quickly drawing their hands back.

"Synthetic fire," one of them breathed. "Brilliant. But how...?"

Not going too far into the technicalities, they both explained the idea.

"Trying to scare the life out of your tributes before they even get to the arena, are you?" another suggested, raising a laugh from the table.

"Of course," she answered, smiling, and Cinna nodded.

As they extinguished the flames, a Gamemaker said, "And after that... what do you have for training?"

The rest of the presenation went fairly well, and the Gamemakers were nothing but pleased with all of their work.

But a few still looked the slightest bit scared at the end of the presentation.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

After that last day at the Remake Center, there was very little excitement. The beginning of the new year came and went, but it was a week later that they got the note. It was a quiet, rainy day, and from what they could tell, the hallway was empty when the note slipped under the front door to their apartment.

_Midnight tonight. D12 floor—Training Center. Destroy this._

"Are we going?" Portia had asked quietly after they'd both read it, already tossing the note into the fire for good measure.

"I would say yes," Cinna answered, his voice also even lower than usual in volume. "Unless you think it's a trap?"

"Doubt it. But you can never be too careful."

"I know."

It was clear to them what the note was referring to—a meeting of those on the side of the rebellion in the Capitol. Yet that still brought up so many more questions...

**. . . . . . . . . .**

They waited until half past eleven that night to start going to the Training Center, which was pretty much as long as they dared. It was practically pitch-black outside due to the thick clouds overhead, and rain was pouring down in relentlessly heavy sheets. Still, it was the ideal set of conditions for trying to get to a meeting like this one, where it was too dark to be able to see anyone walking along some of the side-streets, and the rain caused too much noise to hear any sounds of footsteps that they hadn't muffled enough already.

They reached the Training Center, finding the front door unlocked, (they suspected that this was Plutarch's work), and walked inside quietly, shutting the door behind them. There were no lights on, and all of the curtains on the windows were drawn tightly. The elevator took them up to the District Twelve floor exactly five minutes before midnight.

They found that it was a bit warmer on the top floor than it was on the ground level, probably because there was no heat on in the frigid building, so any warmth in it had risen to the top level. At first, they saw no one. Then they saw some of the group gathered around a table in the sitting room and cautiously went to join them, clearly relieved when they saw a few people that were certainly involved with the rebellion.

Plutarch Heavensbee, Effie Trinket, and Fulvia Cardew had been the first three people to arrive. When the two District Twelve stylists walked in, the other three all spun around. "Oh, good, you're here on time," Effie said. "You'd be surprised how many people are late to their very first meeting. Seems like the prime day to be early, if you ask me."

Plutarch just nodded in a general greeting and said, "This is Effie Trinket, the escort for District Twelve." He then gestured to Fulvia, though they didn't know her name at that time, "And this is my assistant, Fulvia."

"Good to meet you," Fulvia said, and, like Effie's, the words were spoken in a ridiculously high-pitched Capitol accent.

Cinna and Portia sat down next to each other at the table that had been set up as a few more greetings were exchanged. The atmosphere suddenly seemed a little bit tenser as they waited for the others. _Why'd they call the meeting? _From what they'd heard in Thirteen, this wouldn't be too common of an occurrence—there were only so many risks that could be taken between The District's activity and the group in the Capitol and everyone else in the districts. This would only happen when it was necessary, when there was a problem, or, at least, something that really needed to be discussed. So what was it this time?

The thoughts faded as the next person arrived at almost the very moment before the clock struck midnight—Lavinia. She said nothing to anyone, but simply sat down at the table, rather far away from where everyone else had positioned themselves, by one of the corners of the back wall of the room. "That's Lavinia, of course," Plutarch explained to the two newcomers.

She gave them a small wave and then gestured to Plutarch.

"Oh, yes, of course," he'd said, really just to her, before turning back to the two stylists. "Don't take it personally when she doesn't talk to you—she's an Avox. Can't speak."

Avox. The two of them had certainly heard the word before, but it suddenly just seemed so much more real, here and now, the reality of the Capitol's cruelty towards even its own citizens. It was even more so confirmed just a few moments later, when Castor and Pollux arrived—the latter was also deprived of the ability to speak, so his brother had to introduce both of them to Cinna and Portia.

It just made everything that they were risking so much more obvious.

Two more people came just a few minutes after midnight, introduced as Cressida and Messalla. There appeared to be nothing particularly special about either of them; they seemed to be actually rather "normal" Capitol citizens.

Next came Tigris, someone that, like Effie and Plutarch, the two other stylists recognized from old Hunger Games interviews. Their first live impression of her was probably something along the lines of how it was impossible to not think of a cat whenever it came to Tigris—everything from her name to her voice to her appearance fit the description flawlessly.

Last, but not least, about ten minutes after midnight, came Haymitch Abernathy—victor of the fiftieth Annual Hunger Games, also known as the second Quarter Quell, and the only living mentor of District Twelve. He required very little introduction, though Plutarch did have to explain that for this one meeting, they'd had to secretly get him to the Capitol, which wasn't too hard as everyone in District Twelve had pretty much figured that he was just passed out somewhere in his house (as usual).

Once everyone was quiet and seated around the table, the meeting seemed to begin officially, and it was Plutarch who was the first to speak. "Good thing that everyone's here," he had begun. "Now, first announcement is that, clearly, this is the first time we've tried this location for a meeting. We thought that it would be a safe place, because there are actually rules listed in the regulations and such for the Hunger Games that the Capitol can't have any sort of cameras or listening devices here, as part of the tribute rights. After a thorough check, we found that those rules have yet to be ignored."

There was a slight pause before he changed the subject slightly. "However, due to things of this sort in the districts, which _are _allowed, I do believe that we have our tributes from District Twelve."

"And they are?" The voice of the person who had asked the question clearly belonged to Effie.

"Katniss Everdeen and Gale Hawthorne." Plutarch paused, letting this sink in, then continued, "I know that we were going to wait for someone to simply get reaped that had a real shot at winning, but, let's face it, in a district like Twelve... well, a rigged Reaping might be necessary. Otherwise we could be waiting for another hundred, two hundred _years _of Hunger Games."

"So we'd all basically be screwed," Haymitch put in.

"But, in that case," Plutarch continued, ignoring what Haymitch had said, "both of these potential tributes do show promise, so if they were both in the Games, we could see which one of them won, and they would be a bit more trusted and looked up to as a victor, and whoever won would clearly be the better choice." It all came out in what sounded like a jumbled, run-on ramble.

"What makes 'em so promising?" It was another comment from Haymitch.

"Yes, how could we be sure that they would be the right choice?" Cressida put in, while a few other people seemed to agree.

"The girl's father died when she was eleven—she's been keeping herself, her sister, and her mother alive ever since. There is one part that I forgot—if we do want her in the Games, we wouldn't reap her, we would select her younger sister—she's twelve, so it'll be her first year in the Reaping. Her name is Primrose Everdeen. If Katniss volunteered for her sister, it would give her an automatic edge with the crowd."

"How did she keep her family alive?" Neither of the stylists caught who it was that had spoken.

"Hunting, out in the woods, with a bow and arrows that her father had taught her how to use. A few other ways, as well—gathering, fishing... trading in the black market that the Capitol usually ignores."

Changing the subject again, Portia demanded, "But what if she _doesn't _volunteer? If something goes wrong, or if she goes into a state of shock, or even if you're just wrong about her—then where would we be? With an innocent twelve-year-old girl being sent off to her death..."

"What does it matter?" Haymitch shot back. "If we want to succeed, we'll do what we have to; everyone here knows that. If she doesn't volunteer, she's not the right choice anyway!"

"What about the male tribute?" Effie asked, before anyone could answer what Haymitch had said. "Why should he be in the Games?"

"The potential male tribute, Gale, has also been taking care of his family for several years. He hunts out in the woods with Katniss and trades, as well," Plutarch answered.

"And you can tell all this from just a few cameras and bugs?" Tigris asked.

"Ah, well, yes, actually," Plutarch answered.

"And they _know _each other?" Portia continued. "That makes it twice as awful."

Plutarch ignored her. "Shall we take a vote on rigging the Reaping?" There was general agreement.

She already knew what she was voting for. _They're just kids! _she thought to herself. _They never did anything to be sentenced to this, to the arena!_

Everyone except for the two District Twelve stylists and Lavinia, much to their horror and shock, voted yes to rigging the Reaping. Lavinia, unable to talk, had simply looked a bit horrified, like she wanted to say something but obviously couldn't when it came to her turn to vote, and had shook her head.

When Plutarch had caught up on writing down everyone's votes, he turned to Portia. "I vote no!" she blurted out. "They're not _tributes, _they're _children_! Innocent children!"

Cinna's turn was next. He had said nothing at first, and just glanced at Portia for a small moment before saying, very quietly, "I vote no."

At the end of all of this, Plutarch said, "Well, it would be better if we could _all _agree, but I do suppose that majority rules, and we have our tributes." He turned to Effie. "You'll make sure that those are the two tributes chosen?"

She'd nodded. "Oh, yes; of course!"

There wasn't much more to the meeting after that, and everyone started to head home, back out into the darkness and the rain. For the two District Twelve stylists, there was silence most of the way back to their apartment. Naturally, they wanted to talk about what had happened at the meeting, about the cruelty behind the rigged Reaping, but they knew that it wasn't safe to talk out on the streets, not even with the wind and rain muffling their words and the all-consuming darkness to hide them.

It still wasn't safe.

It wasn't safe anywhere, and it probably never would be.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

She practically slammed the door closed behind them as they re-entered their apartment. "Sorry," she mumbled, seeing Cinna cringe at the reverberating sound. She heard him sigh, taking her hand in his. For a few moments they were both silent; then she heard him speak quietly:

"We can't keep fighting amongst ourselves. It won't get us anywhere."

"I know," she said, avoiding his eyes.

He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "Yes; we all know that." He let go of her hand, taking a few steps away from her, towards one of the windows to look at the storm raging outside. "Yet we argue anyways."

"We can't always agree on everything," she reminded him gently. "Isn't that what this is all about? Disagreeing with... how things are done?"

He spun around to face her again. "But we have to remember what it is that we're fighting against!" he snapped. "And it's not ourselves! There's a _war _going on, Portia, in case you haven't noticed!"

"Well of course I've noticed!" she shot back at him. Then her voice softened. "Of course... I've noticed."

He rubbed at his eyes tiredly, seeming defeated. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I... I know that this isn't your fault. It's just that..." Something in his expression changed. "I'm being a bit of a hypocrite, aren't I?"

"Yes," she agreed quietly, smiling.

"If we can't trust each other, then who can we trust?" he asked, his voice low.

The question was another discussion in itself. One of the values that was always taught in District Thirteen was loyalty, and also vigilance against attacks of others. Trust wasn't a word to be thrown around loosely, never where the war was concerned, anways.

Cinna was right: if they couldn't trust anyone on the outside, and they didn't have faith in those who were certainly on their side, there was no one left.

Who _could _they place their hopes in? Not the Capitol, certainly. But not just anyone from Thirteen, either. Who was it that would end all of this fighting? Would it be one of the tributes they'd discussed? Someone else?

"I don't know," she answered softly.

"Exactly."

Would the year see the end of the war, or just the beginning of it? Would _they _live to see the end of it? In training, there were always warnings, always old stories about the awful things that could happen… But, no, those were the past, not to be repeated, right?

Only time would tell.


	4. Dangerous Love

**4. Dangerous Love**

As more time began to pass, citizens of the Capitol could feel the excitement of the Games growing closer and closer. There were just under four months left, closer to a mere three and a half, really, and it was a long enough time after the Victory Tour that the crowds in the Capitol wanted more of the excitement of the Hunger Games. Yet only the exact opposite could be said for the two District Twelve stylists.

It was a cold February day; one where a thin layer of pale clouds coated the sky and snowflakes fell on to the ground. There had been a long series of snow flurries all of the night before, so the ground was completely covered in several inches of thick, powdery snow, though now the flakes fell at a slower pace so that the weather wasn't completely miserable.

Inside their apartment, however, the temperature was warmer by a considerable margin. Portia watched the snow fall outside the window, thinking of all of the times back in District Thirteen that she and Cinna had gone to watch the first snowfall of the year.

She felt him come up behind her, arms wrapping around her waist. "What are you thinking about?" he asked gently.

"Sometimes," she started, "I wish that everything was more like... this." She gestured to the scene outside the window, then relaxed against him, sinking into his embrace.

"What do you mean, exactly? More like... what?"

"I mean... it's just... oh, I don't know, everything just seems so peaceful, and... it's not. It doesn't seem right." By the time she finished, her voice was barely audible. "You know what I mean?"

She felt him nod. "Yes."

"And then," she continued, "I think about how everything should be more like how _you _see it."

He tightened his grip on her. "And how do you think I see everything?"

"You always just see the best in things. And you never find anything to complain about, which is even more frustrating."

"Like when?" His voice was soft, yet the question was infuriating at the same time, trying to find the flaw in her argument.

She thought for a moment, then answered, "When we met the prep teams. I said that they had no life ethics—you said that they were well-intentioned."

"Because they are," he pointed out.

"You see what I mean!" she exclaimed, turning in his grasp to face him. "You always see the good side."

"Name _one _other time, Portia," he said. "Honestly, I think _you're _the one who's only seeing the positives here."

She looked like she came up with something fairly quickly, but didn't say it out loud. He rested his forehead against hers and asked, "Well?"

"Well... if you _do _need one other time... I guess you could say... in me, I suppose."

"What do you mean?" he questioned softly, lifting one hand to brush her hair back out of her eyes as she dropped her gaze to the floor.

"I mean..." she started quietly, "you only ever see the best in me, know matter what anyone else says or what's true."

"I see the best in you, Portia, because I love you, which is because of what's true," he answered after a few seconds.

"You're not making any sense," she said, lifting her gaze to meet his again.

"Never said that I was going to make sense, did I?" he teased. "Just think about it."

She sighed. "I guess you didn't. Doesn't mean that it isn't frustrating."

Cinna chuckled. "Exactly." She was just about to give him a good shove, but then he was leaning in to her, pressing his lips against hers and muffling any protests, giving her the kind of kiss that could make you feel warm and safe... and loved.

She pulled back ever so slightly, and whispered, "Fine. You're right, as you always are, and we're _both _insane. Happy?"

Cinna only smiled, pulling her even closer. "Of course I am."

"Why is it _of course_?"

"Because," he started, pressing a kiss against the top of her head, "you're here."

She just rested her head against his shoulder a bit warily in answer, looking up at him. "So, did you flip through a book of cliché things to say lately, or are you just making this up as you go along?" she teased him.

He smiled and said, "Something along those lines."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

A few days later, the next note slipped under their door, its nature similar to the last one they had received.

The meeting that the note had been announcing started off as fairly normal, or at least what they had decided was "normal". There were only a few notes from various people, minor things to be gone over before the Games started taking away everyone's attention.

From under the table, there was a quiet beeping sound. It was only even noticable in one of the moments of silence that settled over the group between the talking.

There was no acknowledgement of the sound, no warning other than the slightest increase in the volume of the beeping. Nothing, yet it took barely a second for there to be the scurry of footsteps, the voices calling out to each other in warning and fear.

Not from the two stylists, though. Moving swiftly, they were well out of the room and ordering the others to follow by the time the first explosion went off.

It didn't have too large of an impact, not expanding beyond the sitting room, yet bits of the furniture were blasted out of the doorway into the collective area of the floor.

The second and third explosions quickly followed, planted just past the threshold of the left-and-right-side hallways. These were larger, sparks flying inwards towards the main room and searing hot air blowing in at such a high rate that some were knocked off their feet.

Portia found herself strugging to regain her footing, smoke clouding her vision and choking her for air. Once upright again, she noticed that she'd lost track of most of the others, who seemed to have run straight for the elevators. Only a few still seemed to be in sight—Lavinia, Plutarch, Castor and Pollux, and... Cinna, she realized with some relief.

_But now what?_

The thought had barely come into her mind when there was the pounding of footsteps coming from both of the hallways. Yes, that was it. Some part of her had just _known _that there was more to this setup than just the explosions. Some instinct had said, _Stay and __fight__._

In sharp contrast to the noises of the Peacekeepers' approach, there were the clumsier, hastier thumps from most of the remaining rebels taking off in several different directions.

Hardly having time to think, she was just reaching to draw her only weapon when she was pulled backwards from behind—straight out of the range of the bullets flying in from either side. Cinna released her quickly as the Peacekeepers burst into the room.

There was no time for thought, no time to consider if it was the right choice or not—they had to move or die. Once their targets were spotted, the myriad of shots slowed down, but became more precise. Dodging the attacks became slightly harder, more of a challenge. Move to the left, duck, move again.

They were outnumbered now—four to two—but they also proved to be more intelligent than the Peacekeepers were. Neither of them had launched a weapon yet, but it wasn't out of hesitation. It was the thought that each of them only had one shot, one knife, one chance at this before it was down to their own instincts and logic.

She quickly moved as if to throw the silver blade, but then snapped it in the other direction and it flew towards one of the Peacekeepers too quickly for him to realize it, and at the odd angle it just barely skimmed his shoulder before lodging into his neck from the side. A few seconds later, there was the thud of his body hitting the ground.

One of the others, at this, seemed to realize that attacking at a distance was going to get them nowhere. He retrieved the knife out of the dead Peacekeeper and within the time space of a few seconds had Portia pinned back against the wall, knife against her throat. Struggling was useless. "CINNA!"

He spun towards the direction that her voice had come from, then sent a knife flying towards the Peacekeeper, who collapsed to the ground.

Suddenly a bit more out of breath, she grabbed both of the weapons and smoothly tossed one to Cinna, throwing the other straight towards one of the remaining Peacekeepers. Not as clean of a shot, but it worked just as well.

Cinna had apparently also gone right for an attack, because now there were no more bullets flying their way, no living Peacekeepers in sight. Still too on edge, they both raced forwards just enough to retrieve their weapons, taking whatever the Peacekeepers still had with them as well.

"Think there's anyone else?" she got out, still choking on the thin layer of smoke lingering in the air.

Before he could answer, they were both being pulled backwards from behind.

She felt a sharp stab of pain, and then there was nothing.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

"Portia."

Her eyes opened quickly, but she had to blink several times to get used to the bright, harsh lighting. "What... happened?" She forced herself to sit up, feeling dizzy and sick.

"I don't know," Cinna answered. His voice was steady, but it was easy to see the fear in his eyes. "We were still at the Training Center, last I remember."

The room they were in seemed like it would certainly be out of place on one of the Training Center floors. Fairly small—about fifteen feet on all sides, she estimated. Solid white, the sort of space that could easily give you that over-sterilized feeling, with tile floors. It was flooded in bright light, though she couldn't identify any particular source. No windows, not so much as an air duct that she could see as a way out except for one door.

"Door's locked?"

He nodded.

"_Great_."

There was the heavy pounding of footsteps from just outside, and they both jumped up automatically, as if this was going to help the situation.

Then, voices, neither quite recognizable.

"This'd better be important, Kamari, or else-"

"Oh, it is, sir. It is."

"Are you _certain _about this? Not getting too eager, are we?"

"No, sir; of course not."

They heard the door unlocking, but all too quickly it was closed and secured again. The two that they'd heard approaching entered the room.

The first, in person, would've been impossible to not place immediately—President Snow, no doubt irritated at having been disturbed when it was nearing half past one in the morning. The second, they assumed, was the one that had been referred to as Kamari.

"Why am I not surprised?" the president asked, now seeming amused. "I have to say, after I saw the reports, I knew that it was only a matter of time." He turned back to the Peacekeeper standing beside him. "Care to explain what happened?"

He'd caught word of the meeting, he said, but hadn't thought that it would be a major issue, and so had arranged, within his squad, for the explosions at the Training Center and the ambush. Their first goal had been to kill, but when that had failed, they'd decided to bring the remaining two in for interrogation at the Capitol Building.

_So that's where we are. Good to know._

"You idiot," Snow mumbled. "You never kill someone who has information you want." Then, louder, "And as for the others? Are they dead; do we know who they are?"

"We don't know either, sir."

The president sighed in exasperation. "You should consider yourself lucky that _something _went well tonight," he said. Then he turned to Cinna and Portia, adressing them for the first time. "You two, come with me. Don't even _think _of trying anything; this place is well guarded and I can guarantee that you will fail."

They were roughly led down the hallway to what seemed to be an office room, and the president took a seat at his desk. "Looks like you two both have a lot of explaining to do," he said after a few minutes of looking through a thin folder. "Do you know what these are?" He held up some of the papers in the file.

They shook their heads.

"_This—" _he gestured to the file, this time "—is the incident report for the night of December twenty-first. Any idea what happened then?"

Silence greeted the question.

He leaned towards them slightly, his gaze growing colder and voice practically a hiss. "Don't play innocent with me. I don't claim to know exactly who you really are, but I don't believe for a second that you're loyal to the Captol. And I _will _know by the end of the night whether you plan on cooperating or not. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way; it's your choice."

"If you have the incident report, sir, I think that you already know what happened, so it'd be redundant for us to tell you again, don't you think?" Portia asked.

The president exhaled slowly and leaned against the back of his chair, studying the two of them. "I suppose so," he said, much to both of their surprise. "However, there is some... backstory, that's missing. Clearly, neither of you are Capitol citizens. Care to tell me where you _are_ from, then?" The words were quiet, almost soft, coaxing... misleading.

Cinna said nothing. Portia watched the ground, pretending to hesitate, then, her voice purposely unsteady, said, "District Eight."

It was the best lie that she could think of, and it would make sense. Eight—textiles. The perfect cover story for the two stylists.

The president seemed amused. "Oh, yes, of _course. _Because Eight is just _so _famous for training its citizens in combat well enough to take on Peacekeepers, I presume?" It was obvious that he could detect the lack of truth.

"That was luck," she practically whispered.

"Luck," the president echoed. "I doubt that."

"I'm sure you do, sir."

Snow was clearly starting to get tired of the conversation. "Kamari," he called to the Peacekeeper standing at the door, "it looks like your job is far from over for tonight."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

They'd been dragged off by Peacekeepers into separate rooms. Portia quickly inspected the one that she was in. It was similar to the room that she'd woken up in, with only slight differences.

She allowed herself just one second to breathe, willing herself to stop shaking—a futile attempt once she saw the Peacekeeper pull a slim metal device from a pocket of his uniform.

"Where were you before you came to the Capitol?"

"District Eight," she got out, though it took considerably longer this time.

"An honest answer would get you further." He pressed the metal device against her left arm. For just one second—one hopeful, blissful moment—she felt nothing at all. And then the pain hit.

Hot, burning, _searing agony _that crossed a line where she couldn't even hear her own screaming anymore. There was nothing else in the world; she couldn't hear, couldn't see, couldn't _think_, unable to process anything other than raw pain.

She felt the device withdraw, but the world still swam in front of her eyes.

"Where were you before you came to the Capitol?"

She couldn't have answered if she'd wanted to. Her senses were detached, she couldn't quite remember how to form words or how to breathe.

Another shock, more all-consuming pain that she just wanted to _end. Just make it stop... _The tears streamed down her face helplessly.

"Have another answer yet?"

"No," she sobbed out, trying to gasp in air a bit too quickly and choking. _This is it, _she thought. _This is how and when I die, after everything. _It would've come as relief at that point.

She felt another press of the metal, even _harder _this time. There was no let up, no aliviating of the pain that took over her. She screamed until her voice almost gave out and yet nothing happened, nothing relieved the agony. She tried to flinch back from it but failed miserably. She just wanted it to _stop. _"Please..."

She couldn't say she felt any of the pressure let up, but suddenly a very small amount of the pain had withdrawn.

"Answer the question."

She shook her head. She couldn't do it.

The device pressed against her arm again. She couldn't even describe the pain, it didn't burn or sting or anything, it just _hurt _and she _screamed _again, the pain taking over her. There was nothing worse than this, nothing that could ever possibly hurt more than this...

The metal withdrew again, and she was scarcely aware of the Peacekeeper replacing it with something else.

"Where were you before you came to the Capitol?" He was clearly starting to get bored with the question.

"I... I don't... know..." She was sure she was going to collapse, nothing even made sense...

There was a sharp stinging sensation as a knife slid along her skin, not deep enough to do any "real" damage, but enough to make her cry out, to increase the pain she was in. Then, again, a swift, short movement, and she yelped, trying to move away from it. Another time, and she actually screamed, seemingly much to the Peacekeeper's satisfaction.

"Just answer the question."

The action repeated several times, quick, sharp nips of pain.

Then that was over, replaced by something else. _Crack. _Like the first, nothing for a second, and then a burning feeling, like her skin was on fire—another crack of the whip against her back and she felt herself fall to the floor, no longer restrained. "Answer it!"

She shook her head, the sobs wracking her body too hard for her to speak. Every slightest bit of motion sent fresh waves of pure agony washing over her.

Several more lashes, and she was starting to wonder how she was still conscious at all.

"Just answer the question!" he shouted, kicking her back towards the wall.

Darkness started fading in around the edges of her vision, closing in quickly, and she shut her eyes. _Please let it all just stop..._

**. . . . . . . . . .**

"Where were you before you came to the Capitol?"

Cinna remained silent. Right now, the Peacekeeper was repeating the question that Snow hadn't gotten an answer to. He was sure that the rest would come shortly.

"No answer?"

More silence.

"Who was it that got you into the Capitol?"

This time, he answered. "No one." His voice was steady, even calm. He didn't break the Peacekeeper's gaze, and could clearly sense the growing frustration at his lack of an answer.

The seconds of quiet that followed were broken by only one sound that sounded far off in the distance.

The sound of Portia's scream.

_"Portia!" _He called her name desperately, only to be held back by the Peacekeeper. Her tortured cry rang through his mind again, so full of fear and pain that he couldn't help but struggle to reach her.

There was another agonized scream from somewhere that sounded far off.

_"Portia!"_ His answer was, again, instinctive. She had to be nearby, and she _needed_ him. What were they doing to her? The question itself brought a flood of images to his mind that he tried to block out as best he could, yet he was failing.

The remaining Peacekeeper smiled. "This is what happens when you don't do what the Capitol wants."

Another highly-pained shriek from wherever she was, and Cinna flinched visibly. He could hardly think of _anything _that could get Portia to _scream_ like that. Nothing could hurt him more than the thought of her being in that much _agony._

The same question washed over his mind again: what were they_ doing _to her?

And why? She hadn't done anything! And whatever it was, he would've taken it ten, twenty, a _hundred_ times over for her.

But now they were hurting her—no, they were _torturing _her—and it was all his fault...

"Any answers yet?"

He couldn't answer; he _wouldn't _answer the question. He couldn't tell them anything, yet—

Another scream.

He _couldn't _tell them. He just _wasn't going to. _But it was getting to be so, so hard...

It was what she would've wanted...

_I'm so sorry..._

**. . . . . . . . . .**

She flinched back again, not quite crying out.

"Shh... I know, sweetheart... it's all right..." He tried to reassure her without much success—it'd been just ten minutes since the two stylists had managed to get back home and out of the Capitol Building, and now they were trying to deal with her injuries.

Finally, she gave in, letting him run the cool water over what seemed to be the long gash on her arm. It stung initially but quickly brought a small amount of relief, making the pain less immediate.

For just one small moment after the blood had cleared away enough to see the injury clearly, she saw his eyes widen before his expression became unreadable again. She followed where his gaze had been and then saw what had potentially surprised him. The cut wasn't really just one—but a series of them, forming, in very rough handwriting, a single word:

TRAITOR

"Lovely," she mumbled sarcastically, more to herself than Cinna.

If he'd heard her, he didn't comment, just applying the ointment he'd found in the first-aid kit and wrapping the injury carefully.

Then he frowned—he really had no idea what he could do for all of the lash marks. Portia was the one who was good at all of this, but she was also the one who was starting to lose consciousness again—he was practically holding her upright by now, stroking his fingers through her hair soothingly.

"Can't we just go to sleep?" she pleaded quietly.

"In a few minutes." His voice was soft, but she sighed in frustration, letting her eyes fall closed.

He went through the supplies that they had available one more time, trying to figure out what to do. The possibilities that came to him would all most likely take some time, especially with his lack of experience, and Portia really did seem to just want to get some rest. He couldn't say that he blamed her, but he still felt the need to do _something _that would ease some of the pain she was in...

The only "good" option he could find, the only thing that would do something more than get rid of a light headache, was one that he doubted he could get her to agree to. "Portia," he started slowly, gently, "this might hurt, a bit, but it'll let you sleep..."

One tired glance at what he was so certainly referring to, the small syringe now resting on the counter, and she shook her head. She'd seen the somewhat-clear medicine before in District Thirteen, and knew exactly what it was—a pain-killer, in essence, not completely unsimiliar to morphling, but it just about set all of your nerves on fire before it did anything else for you.

"Portia, _please_? It has to be better than nothing."

She shook her head again, barely even listening to him.

_Oh, so you'd rather suffer, then? _he snapped mentally, knowing that she wasn't going to get any rest if she didn't cooperate with him. Aloud, he said nothing at first, but simply pinned her back, slowly pressing the plunger of the syringe down into her arm.

She winced and cried out at first, trying to squirm and struggle against him weakly, though he held her back, then withdrew his hand. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

She just whimpered slightly; then the intial effect of the medication wore off and she seemed to relax. "Can I sleep _now_?" she asked tiredly.

He reached up to touch her cheek, the lightest of caresses. "Yes," he said softly, and, before she could really protest, (not that she was, now), he scooped her up into his arms, holding her tightly, and carried her into their room, setting her down on the bed.

A few minutes later, after he'd helped her dress in pajamas, they laid side-by-side in the darkness of the room.

Sleep took over them quickly, the enveloping darkness offering peaceful oblivion.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

"Cinna..."

His eyes opened at the sound of her voice, but then he thought that he must've been hallucinating, because she was still fast asleep.

She thrashed around slightly in his arms, quiet, hurt sounds escaping her lips in her sleep.

He tried to still her, whispering soft, comforting words against her ear. "Shh... it's all right; it's only a nightmare..."

His attempts seemed to fail as she struggled against him, still crying out.

"Portia! Wake up!" He shook her shoulder, but she barely even seemed to notice, still fighting his grip.

"Cinna..."

"Shh, I'm right here, sweetheart..." He tried waking her again and failed.

That was when the screaming started; half his name, half just shrieks of fear and pain.

He still couldn't seem to wake her no matter what it was that he tried, until her eyes flew open in sheer panic.

For a few seconds she couldn't breathe, she was just suffocating, she needed _air. _She struggled against him until he let her go, then ran for the balcony doors, throwing them open and gasping in the cold night air.

The sobs came back and she was shaking uncontrollably, just breaking down under the stress of the day. She fell to her knees, bracing her hands against the ground to keep from collapsing.

And then he was by her side, cupping her face in his hands and stroking away the tears. "I... c-can't... can't d-do... this," she sobbed out to him.

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, holding her to him. She buried her face in his shoulder, muffling the sobs. "Shh... I know..." He shifted their position to sit and hold her in his lap, stroking his hand through her hair. "It's all right... you're safe now; I won't let anything hurt you..."

Slowly, slowly, the sobs died down.

For a few more moments, she merely let him hold her, giving in to his touch and comfort. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"For what?" Her words still came out a bit choked.

"For letting this happen." He sighed shakily and tightened his grip on her.

"It isn't your fault."

"Yes," he insisted quietly, "it is." He touched her cheek, giving her a soft kiss. Then his expression turned pained. "I love you," he said, not quite meeting her eyes. "I... I just couldn't stand it, sweetheart, knowing you were in that much pain; I..." He trailed off, his voice shaking, and buried his face in her hair. "I thought I was going to go insane, just knowing that—" His voice broke momentarily and he tried to breathe. "I'm so sorry. I love you, Portia; I'd do anything for you—you have to know that. It's just that... I couldn't... I'm sorry..."

"I don't blame you, Cinna," she said softly.

He sighed and stood up, helping her back to her feet, as well. "I know," he answered finally, pulling her close again. Then they were both silent, merely enjoying the warm, secure feeling of being in each other's arms.

"Do you want to go back to sleep?" he asked gently.

She shook her head, feeling much too restless to be able to relax enough to sleep. Fear pulled at her mind, the things she'd fought to block out becoming more present than ever. Closing her eyes tightly against the thoughts, she rested her head against his chest and let his heartbeat calm her. He was alive—they were both alive, and about as safe as they were ever going to get. Yet her fear of losing him was still there, always looming and threatening to take over.

Suddenly she felt as if there was nothing else—since this had started, there hadn't been time to think of being afraid of whatever was going to come next; but now it washed over her, consuming her thoughts. They'd always had each other to get them through things, and she couldn't imagine having to deal with all of this alone.

Opening her eyes, she realized she was shaking again.

She felt Cinna's arms slip from around her, and before she'd really regained focus, he was easing her into a chair at the table in the main room. She stared at the floor, trying to get a grip on herself.

A few moments later he was sitting next to her, pressing a warm mug of something into her hand. "Thanks," she murmured, suddenly feeling very tired, and took a small sip of the tea.

"Do you want to talk?"

She looked up at the sound of his voice, ready to simply lie and say no, that she was fine, because, of course, she didn't really want to dwell on the night's events and, besides that, didn't want to worry him any further. But then his eyes were gazing into hers with such love and concern that she found her resolve gone. "Yes."

"What was it that happened, after we were separated?" he asked after a few seconds, smoothing her hair back out of her eyes.

"You know," she whispered, not quite knowing what sort of answer he wanted. Then a thought occurred to her that hadn't before. "What... what happened to you, then?" The question hadn't come up before—she'd seen no signs of torture on him, no implications of what had happened. So she hadn't really worried, but now...

He closed his eyes, answering her quietly. "The Peacekeeper took me into a room that I suppose couldn't have been too far away from where you were," he started. "And he started asking questions; got really frustrated when I didn't answer... but I kept thinking that something else had to happen, I mean—" He broke off for a second, trying to decide how to word it. "Just asking seemed a bit too... 'nice'."

"And?"

He opened his eyes but quickly dropped his gaze, taking one of her hands in both of his. "That was when I heard you screaming."

"Oh." His words from earlier started to make a bit more sense to her, his apologies having more of a reason behind them. "I..." She tried to think of a response but came up mostly blank. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head a bit sadly, lifting his gaze to hers again. "It's not your fault, sweetheart," he said gently.

She just shrugged in answer. In her mind, she could hear every lecture they'd ever been given about what they were risking by being involved with the war. They could be killed; someone they loved could be taken away from them. It'd been made clear that events similar to that night's could be involved, that they would be constantly tested. But, even with the deaths of their parents, it had all just seemed so far away in the relatively safe, isolated world that was The District. So unlikely.

But now all of the uncertainties were back. "Maybe," she said finally.

There would always be doubt, but love would always be stronger.


	5. The Truth of Lies

**5. The Truth of Lies**

For a few days it almost seemed as if things were going to go back to what they had come to call "normal". The only thing of any interest that really happened at all was on one quiet day when Portia had said, "Cinna... today's the twenty-seventh. Of February."

It was something that at least one of them would remember each year, and also one of the things that neither of them ever had to elaborate on—one of those times when the other would simply already know what it was that was being referred to.

"I'll get the candle," Cinna answered, his voice carefully even.

He returned a few moments later, a short candle and box of matches in hand. They sat down next to each other on the couch, placing the candle on the table in front of them. "Ready?" he asked.

Portia nodded, and he lit the candle without saying anything else.

And for the next three hours, they stayed like that—side-by-side, fingers entwined, watching the candle burn on. It was what they did on this one day every year, on the twenty-seventh of February, otherwise known as the anniversary of the most recent attack on District Thirteen, the one that had killed both of their families.

_Eight years since the attack, _Portia thought. _Eight years... is that right? _It was, as she discovered after a bit more thought. _Yes, both of us would've been sixteen, then, so that has to be right..._

Over the years, it had become nothing short of tradition, something in both of their parents' memory.

And so they watched as the candle slowly burned out.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

There were still months left before it would be time for the Reaping, and nothing ever seemed to happen. The Capitol broadcast that The District occasionally had access to always made life in the ruling city seem so _interesting. _And maybe it was, to most. But the two stylists couldn't quite find what it was that people did between the Hunger Games and the Victory Tour and then the Games again.

Was it a bad thing that they were almost eager for it to be Reaping Day? It wasn't in the same sense as those who were simply excited for the bloodshed to begin—it was something closer to a source of anxiety that they wanted to get out of the way so that it wouldn't always be hanging over them like a ton of bricks about to drop.

When it finally did come time for the Reaping, the general feeling of anxiety throughout those who knew that District Twelve's Reaping was going to be rigged continued. There was just so much that could go wrong with that plan, so many things that they might not have considered, that it was distressing just to think about it. So Cinna and Portia were naturally a bit nervous as they sat down to watch the recap of the Reapings. They'd forced themselves to wait for the recap in the evening, because otherwise, you had to watch all of the Reaping—speeches from the escorts and the mayors included. Neither of them were very interested in those, but if you watched the recap, you would just see the tributes getting reaped.

Still, even without the speeches to build tension, there was plenty of it.

As they watched each district's tributes take their places on the stage, they only really noted a few. First, all of the Career tributes, really. They all seemed to be average Careers. Then the girl from District Nine, who seemed like she could potentially be a strong competitor. There was a boy from District Ten who had an injured leg, and then two tributes from District Eleven who couldn't have been more different from each other—a large, powerful boy named Thresh, and a small twelve-year-old girl with wide brown eyes—Rue.

Once the recap reached the District Twelve Reaping, each of the stylists was sure that they were completely cutting off the circulation of the other's hand.

"Primrose Everdeen!" Effie called out the name of the female tribute. Good. That was one thing taken care of, as much as they disagreed with it. They knew now that they couldn't have not gone through with the plan. It didn't seem like a good decision, but the rebels had based so much of the future on it that there wasn't really much of a choice anymore.

Still, Portia gasped, "How is she even in the Reaping? She looks like she's nine!" It all seemed so much more real now, what they were doing. The idea had sounded wrong even at the meeting, but this—selecting an innocent, unsuspecting twelve-year-old girl to fight to the death—it was just so... _wrong_.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" Those were the next words that the two stylists were really aware of. Katniss had raced forward to volunteer—or, at least, it had to be Katniss; there was just no one else who would volunteer. At least they could get that off of their list of concerns.

There was some confusion about what to do if someone wanted to volunteer, but in the end, Katniss got up onto the stage as the female tribute from District Twelve. Cinna and Portia couldn't help but be a bit surprised that Effie hadn't completely memorized the book of guidelines for holding the Reaping—there really was one.

Then that thought was interrupted as Effie called out, "Peeta Mellark!"

"What?" The two of them said the word in nearly perfect unison.

"What happened? Who is this—" Portia stopped just long enough to see if there were any volunteers. There were none. "What happened to Gale?"

"I don't know, Portia," Cinna admitted. "Maybe something just went wrong with the Reaping. Effie wouldn't read off a name that she hadn't drawn—it'd be too obvious on all of the cameras."

"Still..." She sounded more uncertain than ever, now. "I guess it's really just Katniss they're testing out now, right?"

Not missing her use of the word "they" instead of "we", Cinna answered, "Peeta technically still has just as good of a shot as anyone else does, I suppose. We don't know if they changed who they wanted to reap and just didn't tell us or something."

"True," she agreed, shrugging. The boy looked like he could be strong enough, but against a well-armed pack of the Careers... almost no one had a chance.

"I guess there's nothing we can do about it now, anyways," Cinna said finally as the recap really ended. He turned off the television—the rest of the broadcast would really be of more interest to potential sponsors.

"Except wait."

"Right. Except wait."

And wait they would.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Late that night, she woke for what felt like the hundredth time. Both of them had been sleeping restlessly the whole night, too nervous about the next day to really sleep. She found herself reaching out for him, but discovered that she was alone.

A glance into the main room revealed the soft glow of firelight, and she stood nearly silently, walking just to the doorway. For a second he didn't even seem to notice her presence, but then he patted the space next to him on the couch. She sat beside him, feeling his arm go around her shoulders, drawing her closer. "Nervous?" he asked, voice quiet.

"Yes," she admitted, resting her head on his shoulder.

For just a moment, she thought she saw him smile. "Be insane if you weren't," he commented finally.

"Probably." She tilted her head so she could look up at him, tucking her legs up on the couch while he reached for a throw blanket to layer over them both. Snuggling further into him under the warmth of the blanket, she sighed, letting her eyes fall closed. These sort of late-night talks weren't uncommon between them.

He turned his head to touch his lips to her cheek, then murmured, "Things'll turn out all right. You'll see."

She shifted and sat up a bit more to be able to face him without strain. "Maybe," she answered, touching his face lightly. His eyes fell closed to her touch and she smiled, leaning into him slightly for a soft kiss.

There was a quiet crackle from the fireplace and he pulled away from her, draping her hair back over her shoulder. For a few moments there was silence, though not uncomfortable. These warm, peaceful moments were something to hold on to when so many other things went wrong.

"Love you," he whispered, kissing her forehead.

"Love you more."

He gave her a playful shove, and she laughed. "Don't even start that."

"Hmm." She curled up against his side again, wishing that she could think of words to express her love.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

The two of them were at the Remake Center right when they were supposed to be. But there really wasn't a lot to do—one last check on the outfits, a brief meeting with the prep teams for final instructions, and then just waiting for the tributes to arrive. Even then, they weren't going to see their tributes until after the prep teams were done with them, anyways.

It felt like lifetimes but was probably really only a few hours later that Peeta's prep team burst into Portia's office. "He's ready!" Angelique trilled.

"And everything's perfect—he's the best tribute we could've asked for!" Daliana added excitedly.

"Excellent," Portia said, both sounding and feeling a bit more tired than anything else.

"What should we do now?" Landian asked.

Trying to think of something quickly to sound like she knew what she was doing, she answered, "Why don't you all go see how Katniss' prep is going?"

As they all ran off, for once quick to do as they were told, Portia went to see Peeta.

When she walked into the room that the prep team had used to get him ready, he seemed to be almost completely ready for the ceremonies, but he was just wearing a simple bathrobe instead of his costume and was staring out one of the windows.

"Hey," he said, turning to face her before she was even completely in the room.

She couldn't help but smile. "Hello, Peeta," she answered. "I'm impressed, if you could seriously hear me walk in."

Peeta shrugged. "Guess the Games make me pay more attention."

"Very true," she agreed.

It seemed like a bit of an odd start to the conversation. _Why'd I have to end up bringing up the Games so soon?_

"I'm guessing you're Portia?" Peeta said, clearly not thrown by the odd start.

"Yes."

He didn't quite answer, but she could tell by his expression that she wasn't quite the type of person he'd been expecting. She suspected that Katniss might have had the same sort of reaction to Cinna.

"Why don't we go to lunch so we can talk about the ceremonies?" she suggested.

"Sounds good to me."

She led him back to the area where they'd be eating lunch and the table filled with food rose up from the floor.

"So, what _are _Katniss and I wearing for the opening ceremonies?" Peeta asked as they both sat down.

It didn't escape her notice that he'd said "Katniss and I". He hadn't been referring to just himself, hadn't even put his own name first—no, he'd mentioned his district partner before that. She didn't comment on it aloud but did note his slightly worried expression. _Probably expecting to be stuck in a coal miner's outfit, _she thought. "Don't give me that look," she scolded teasingly. "I promise you're not going to be covered in coal dust."

He pretended to sigh in relief, much to both of their amusement. "So, we've eliminated coal dust," he joked. "Are we crossing headlamps off next, or coal miner's outfits?"

"Both," she answered, smiling. "Try fire."

"What?"

"I thought you had good hearing! I said—"

"I know what you said," he laughed. "I just don't really get it."

"You will; trust me."

"Should I be scared?"

She held his gaze evenly for a few moments before answering, "Terrified."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

A few hours later, both of the District Twelve tributes were dressed in their costumes and were ready in their chariot. District Seven pulled out of the stable, but Cinna and Portia were waiting for the District Eleven chariot to move out before they set the costumes on fire.

"How'd everything go?" Cinna asked.

"Fine," she answered vaguely. "Any opinions on Katniss yet?"

After a few moments of hesitation, he replied, "She might get more sponsors if she smiled a bit more." Then he asked, "What about Peeta?"

"I don't think he could really be doing much _better_, at this point," she said honestly. "Really, you'll see what I mean if you talk to him for five minutes. Actually, make that two."

Cinna smiled a bit, glancing up enough to see that the District Eleven chariot was pulling out. "Shall we get out the synthetic fire, then?"

She nodded in agreement, and Cinna went to light the costumes up, giving Katniss and Peeta a few last minute words of advice just as the chariot left. "Let's get to the Training Center," he said once they had pulled out.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

They got to their destination just a few minutes later, and were watching the ceremonies on one of the television screens. Some of the other tributes' outfits didn't seem completely indecent to either of them, but there was no doubt that District Twelve was definitely the crowd favorite.

As the last chariot pulled into the Training Center, Cinna and Portia carefully removed their tributes' capes and headdresses, extinguishing the flames that adorned them. Yet both of them could tell that they hadn't truly extinguished their fire yet.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

A while later, Katniss, Peeta, Effie, Haymitch, Cinna and Portia were all eating dinner on the District Twelve floor of the Training Center, (which had been secretly repaired from the previous explosions).

There was mostly small talk at first, mainly about the opening ceremonies. Even with the talk about them remaining, the two stylists couldn't help but feel a bit relieved that they were done with. Some of the pressure was gone, at least. The opening ceremonies were done with and the two tributes' outfits for training were already dropped off.

After the main courses, Lavinia appeared to bring out a cake that was ringed with fire. Almost immediately, Katniss blurted out, "What makes it burn? Is it alcohol? That's the last thing I wa — oh! I know you!"

Everyone stared at her in disbelieving shock. Peeta didn't even know who Lavinia was, but even he seemed surprised at Katniss' outburst. _How would Katniss know Lavinia? _Portia thought. _It just doesn't make sense, unless... unless that's part of the reason why she's an Avox. _Now that she thought about it, the story almost seemed to fit, especially when she saw Katniss' suddenly guilty expression. But it just seemed so unlikely...

"Don't be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know an Avox? The very thought," Effie snapped. To those who knew the truth about Lavinia, it sounded convincing enough—like Effie didn't have any idea who she was, just like Katniss and Peeta.

"What's an Avox?" Katniss asked no one in particular.

It wasn't like either of the two stylists knew a lot about education in the districts, but they found it hard to believe that she really wouldn't know what an Avox was. _Could she be lying?_

"Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue so she can't speak. She's probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you'd know her," Haymitch answered, also convincingly. His tone didn't sound surprised, at least, to Portia, it didn't. _Maybe they really don't teach those things in school... _The thought was somewhat infuriating—no wonder the districts never really tried to rebel, if they didn't know the whole story.

"And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of them unless it's to give an order. Of course, you don't really know her," Effie continued.

"No, I guess not, I just—" Katniss stammered, her voice faltering. It was clear, then, if it hadn't been earlier, that she wasn't really going to admit to knowing anything.

"Delly Cartwright. That's who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she's a dead ringer for Delly," Peeta put in. It was almost convincing enough to make everyone else believe it. But Portia already knew how Peeta was the type of person who could convince you of almost anything... and that was dangerous. Was he lying now? It was hard to tell. Either way, pretty much all of the adults sighed in relief, glad that the tension was over.

"Of course, that's who I was thinking of. It must be the hair," Katniss agreed. It was clear that she hadn't been expecting Peeta to add to the conversation, with the couple of odd glances she was giving him.

"Something about the eyes, too," Peeta added, barely seeming to notice Katniss' surprise.

"Oh, well. If that's all it is. And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol has burned off. I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut," Cinna explained. At least that much was true. But so few things _were_ real and true anymore.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

After the meal, the group went into the familar sitting room to watch the recap of the opening ceremonies. It did play live as well, but it seemed as though most of the crowds in the Capitol watched from the City Circle itself.

As the District Twelve chariot came onto the screen, Haymitch asked, "Whose idea was the hand holding?"

"Cinna's," Portia said, remembering his last direction to them as they left the stable.

A bit flatly, Haymitch commented, "Just the perfect touch of rebellion. Very nice." It came as a bit of a shock to both Effie and the stylists that he would even mention the idea of rebellion around the tributes. _I wonder if he mentioned it on the train, _Portia thought, making a mental note to ask Peeta if there was ever a good time to do so.

After the recap, Haymitch spoke again, though it was specifically directed at Katniss and Peeta, this time. "Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Meet me for breakfast and I'll tell you exactly how I want you to play it. Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk."

After a few minutes, both of the tributes left the room, heading off to bed.

Cinna and Portia both wondered exactly what it was that Haymitch wanted everyone to talk about without the tributes there. Surely, after he had heard about the events of the latest meetings, he wouldn't consider it safe to talk about most things here. Yet it was Effie who started off the conversation, saying, "So, what strategies are Katniss and Peeta going to be using for training?"

Haymitch seemed very unconcerned with the issue, and just answered, "I think that it's the right idea to present 'em as a team. Makes the crowd have more interest."

"Anything else?" Effie asked, clearly desperate to try and get _something _that she could play up to the sponsors out of him.

Haymitch shook his head, seeming like he didn't particularly care.

Effie, looking distressed, said, "Fine. In that case, I'm going to bed." She walked straight out of the room uncharacteristically, without saying goodnight to anyone.

"Someone's in a mood, eh?" Haymitch commented.

Neither of the stylists answered him, but Portia said, "So, what _was _it that you were going to talk about?" There are some questions that you will eventually regret asking, and, for Portia, that was most certainly one of them.

Haymitch glared at the two of them, then answered, "The two of you, actually." He paused, and, when there was no response from either of them, continued, "You know what I find interesting?"

_No. Don't want to, either, _Portia answered mentally.

As though he'd heard her, Haymitch turned to her specifically. "I think it's amusing that you still don't know."

"Know what?" she asked carefully. This didn't seem like Haymitch to her—which gave her a bad feeling.

"Oh, it's not my place to answer that," Haymitch said, almost sounding casual. "It's Cinna's."

He glanced at him quickly, as though it was for emphasis. Cinna only seemed a bit confused, which Portia wasn't quite sure if she found reassuring or even more unsettling. Some small part of her hoped that he did know what Haymitch was talking about, so that the confusion could be settled. Yet another side of her didn't want him to know, didn't want there to be something that he was hiding from her. Then again, maybe this was all some big misunderstanding. Yes, it _had _to be. They _never _hid things from each other.

Then why did she have the distinct feeling that that was about to change?

The three of them continued to sit in tense silence. "Well?" Haymitch prompted. Cinna held his gaze evenly but didn't say anything. Then he glanced at Portia one more time before turning back to Haymitch.

"Is _someone _going to tell me what in Panem is going on?" Portia blurted out.

"I'd hope so, now," Haymitch answered. Seeing Cinna's continued hesitation, he added, "Well, I'll leave you both to that," and then walked out.

"Cinna, _what's going on_?" She was starting to get frustrated by now.

He didn't answer her, just watched the ground, avoiding her eyes. "Nothing," he finally said, his voice quiet.

"Cinna?" she tried again, turning his face towards hers so he was forced to meet her gaze.

He sighed, took both of her hands in his, and started softly, hesitantly, "The night of the attack on District Thirteen, before the first explosion, the Capitol'd sent some of their Peacekeepers to try and capture some of the last people who weren't in the bunker. And they succeeded, but everyone that they took was thought to be dead after the attack, because the people who got through the ambush died the second that the first explosion went off."

He paused, letting this sink in. But she didn't understand where he was going with this. The explanation seemed a bit… abrupt―had he known all along? And, so... what? Why did it really matter?

"Then, a few months later, Coin found out about the original ambush when the Capitol was trying to lure them into another attack. But she didn't go, didn't even tell anyone—except for Boggs, I think."

"Then how do you know? How does Haymitch know?" Portia cut in.

"Let me finish," he said gently, taking a deep breath before continuing, "About... about a month before we came to the Capitol, Coin apparently decided that we should know about it, before... before we left. So she told me, because... she thought it would be easier if you found out about it from me. I don't know why she cared."

"Why would she want us to know about it?" Now she just felt a bit lost and confused. "And what does this have to do with Haymitch?"

"I... I don't know how Haymitch heard about it," he admitted. "That was probably an accident."

"But _why would she want to tell us_?" Portia repeated.

Cinna smiled a bit helplessly, but it quickly faded. "Portia," he started, his voice still gentle, "think about it. Who were some of the last people on the upper levels who didn't get to the bunker in time?"

"Our parents," she whispered, dropping her eyes to the ground.

He nodded grimly. "Yours, specifically," he said.

Tears came to her eyes and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. "It's all right," he soothed. "Everything's going to be fine."

"So, my parents... they're... alive?"

He nodded. "I... I think so."

All of a sudden, she stood from where she had been earlier, tearing herself out of his grip and taking a few steps back, shaking her head. "Why didn't you tell me?" she choked out angrily.

"I thought it was for the best," he tried, rising to join her. "We were leaving The District in a month, there was a lot of pressure on you... I couldn't have put you through that, too, Portia. I just couldn't do it."

"But what about after that?" she snapped at him. "Once we got here! What was stopping you then?"

"I—"

"Forget it! I don't want to hear your pathetic excuse, whatever it is! You _lied _to me, Cinna! We _never _lie to each other!"

"Portia—"

"No!" Her voice had risen until she was shouting at him. "Don't talk to me!" And with that, she walked out of the sitting room, not even glancing at him.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Odd nightmares came to her that night. Different versions of the attack on District Thirteen collided with the hours she'd spent with the Peacekeeper in the Capitol Building, all somehow coming back to what she'd found out earlier.

It seemed to go on for the whole night in a sort of strange, collected montage of distorted memories that never quite made sense, never quite fit...

Eventually, she ended up screaming herself awake, bolting upright and gasping for air. It took her a few minutes to remember where she was, and then the whole night came back to her so quickly that she regretted waking up. Her parents weren't dead. They were alive, but probably in some underground prison of the Capitol being tortured for information. Cinna knew about it, but had lied to her. Haymitch had manipulated him into being forced to tell her what had really happened.

She heard a quiet knock on the bedroom door. "Portia." She flinched automatically, knowing his voice all too well. And worst of all, Cinna didn't even sound angry with her—his voice was soft, almost reassuring.

"Go away," she choked out. She didn't want him there, not tonight.

Practically able to hear his hesitation, she heard him say, "I can explain, if you'll let me."

Not fully aware of what she was doing, she sat up and pressed a button on the touch screen of the nightstand, unlocking the door. "Fine."

He entered the room slowly, quietly shutting the door again behind him.

"I can explain," he repeated softly.

"Let's hear it, then," she answered; but her voice seemed much colder in contrast to his.

"Once we got to the Capitol," he started slowly, "I didn't... I didn't want to tell you about... well, everything, because I thought that you would try to do something to get them back to District Thirteen—or turn against Coin and her supporters, even. I couldn't watch you do something that might've gotten you killed, Portia. I was... I was just trying to keep you safe." He finished in scarcely more than a whisper, watching her silently.

She didn't answer right away, hating herself for giving in to him so easily. "I wouldn't have done anything stupid, Cinna," she said finally.

"I know," he replied. "I'm sorry."

"If you knew that than why did you lie to me in the first place?" she demanded, voice rising in volume again.

"I didn't want to take the chance," he answered calmly. "I wasn't sure, then."

Her voice returning to its normal volume, she said, "I'm sorry, too. I mean... I just... I should've listened to you."

He sat down next to her and said, "I know."

The tears finally spilled over and she buried her face in his shoulder, feeling his arms go around her automatically. "Shh... everything's going to be all right..." he murmured quietly, stroking one hand down her hair.

She just shook her head, not quite looking up at him. "No," she whispered. "It's not."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

There were still so many questions. How did Haymitch know about what had really happened during the attack on District Thirteen, and why did he want Portia to know? How did he even know that she didn't and that Cinna did? Not to mention why Coin hadn't tried to rescue those who had gone missing from The District... and where were they now, anyways?

In a way, with all of the uncertainty around, the two stylists were both grateful that they weren't due back at the Training Center until the night that Katniss and Peeta got their training scores—the last day of training.

While she wasn't exactly eager to talk to Haymitch again, Portia _did_ want to get some of the answers to those questions that never seemed to have an answer. Then again, it wasn't like she hadn't known what she was getting into when she and Cinna had left District Thirteen for the Capitol.

The day after she had found out the truth, she knew that if she was going to talk to Haymitch, it had to be soon. Not at that moment—the two tributes would be back on the District Twelve floor any minute now. But tomorrow was a good day for it, and the only one, really—the day after that was for receiving the training scores—the next two were filled with preparation for the interviews.

Then the Games started, and he would be off to the Games Headquarters—any chances would be gone.

That was almost a slightly scary thought—the Games starting in just over four days.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

The next day, the second one of training, Portia gathered up her courage and went to the Training Center to talk to Haymitch.

She could practically see the scowl on his face when she knocked on the locked door to his room of the Training Center, but the door opened a few moments later. "What do you want?" he snarled, almost seeming surprised to see her.

"I need to talk to you," she answered simply, not elaborating. She glanced around the room quickly, as if expecting to see some way of the Capitol listening to their conversation in plain sight.

"Fine, fine," he said, pushing the door open further so she could come in and closing it again. "We can talk here," he added, noting the uneasiness.

"I wanted to know how you knew the truth about the attack on District Thirteen," she said before she could lose her nerve.

Haymitch laughed. "Never underestimate the power of eavesdroppin'," he answered. "'Specially when its on the president of District Thirteen and 'er favorite commader. Easy enough to tell that she was talkin' 'bout you two and how you knew or not."

"Why were you in District Thirteen?" she insisted.

"Checking in with them before this year's Games," he answered, actually surprising her.

She hesitated. It seemed odd that he was being so... honest. But then she forced herself to ask the hardest question yet, "And why did you want Cinna to tell me about it?"

"I don't like either of you," he said, as if that was an answer. "You in particular, really. Figured the lie between you both'd split you up, make you both miserable."

"Should I ask why?" So far, there had been nothing _too_ shocking. Eavesdropping, not liking either of them... the second one she'd practically already known.

It was Haymitch's turn to hesitate, just before he said, "You didn't convince your mother to get to the bunker in time the night of the attack."

"What? What does that have to do with anything?" she demanded.

Even though her tone stayed strong, he could tell that he'd hit a sensitive memory and grinned. "So much you still don't know..."

"Are you going to tell me or not?"

"Oh, I'll tell you. Not going to say that you'll like it, but it's about time you heard the real story," he said. And Haymitch began to explain...

_It was Reaping Day for the fiftieth Annual Hunger Games in District Twelve. For months before that, he had been dating Maysilee Donner, and had just been hoping for her safety when her name was called at the Reaping. He'd thought that that would be the worst thing that could ever happen to the two of them... until he got called, too._

_There were no volunteers, and the two tributes, Maysilee Donner and Haymitch Abernathy, were taken to the Justice Building to see their loved ones one last time._

_During her visit with her twin sister, Melody, Maysilee and her ended up switching places. (Haymitch didn't find this out until the train ride to the Capitol.) So it was Melody Donner that ended up going to the train station and off to the Capitol with Haymitch—not Maysilee Donner, as all of Panem had thought._

_The days before the Games came and went, and the two tributes decided that they didn't want to be in an alliance with each other—didn't want it to come down to the two of them. But Haymitch was determined to make sure that Melody got home—for Maysilee. Him, he thought, Maysilee would get over, but her own twin sister? Never._

_But when Melody saved his life in the Games, they were left with almost no choice but to team up. It would've just seemed so odd not to._

_Still, when it came down to the final few tributes, they broke it off, not wanting it to come down to them. So she walked away, without even looking at him or shaking his hand._

_Since he had been looking for the edge of the arena, Haymitch discovered that the force field threw objects that hit it back in to the arena. But he was soon distracted when he heard Melody scream._

_He ran for her, even though their alliance was over, because he couldn't let her die. But it was too late, and all he could do was hold her hand while the life slowly drained out of her._

_Later on, he used the forcefield as a weapon, and, because of it, ended up winning the fiftieth Hunger Games._

_The victor rebels quickly took him into their group, seeing how he had already questioned the Capitol so much in the Games—using the edge of the arena, never intending to be found, as a weapon; running for "Maysilee" even after they had broken off the alliance. He was then introduced to several people from District Thirteen._

_Knowing how his loved ones were then in danger, Haymitch told the rebels that he had one request before he joined the rebellion—they had to get "Melody" back to District Thirteen, somewhere safe. (The rest of his family was later killed.) He didn't tell them about how she and her sister had switched places, how Maysilee was the one that he was so madly in love with at the time, and how he had been determined to make sure that her sister, her best friend, came back home to her. And he had failed._

_The rebels agreed, wanting Haymitch—the most recent and currently youngest victor—on their side. So they sent someone to impersonate "Melody" back in District Twelve, and took Maysilee Donner to District Thirteen. (Haymitch never really did talk to the impersonator all that much.) But there was a bit of a catch—Maysilee, at the time that she was taken to District Thirteen by the rebels, was pregnant with Haymitch's child. What could they say? They were young and in love—Haymitch was a victor now, and emotions were running high because of Melody's death..._

_Haymitch had a friend back in District Thirteen, one of the people that he had met when he had gotten to know a few citizens of The District. He was around the age of Haymitch and Maysilee, (he was twenty at that time—Maysilee had been in her last year of the Reaping, so she was nineteen by now; Haymitch turned seventeen shortly after the Reaping). He had agreed, for Haymitch's sake, to pretend to get together with Maysilee (who everyone thought was Melody Donner, though she had taken a fake name, with the last name of Haymitch's said friend in District Thirteen, becoming Liliana Adaline) and pretend to be the father of her child. (It wasn't announced that she was pregnant at all before then, to make the story seem more believable... and so they would pretend that "their" future child had been born a bit earlier than usual.) Meanwhile, Haymitch would always be getting secret updates from District Thirteen from those who knew the whole truth._

_Maysilee slowly started to blend in with District Thirteen. People rarely remembered her past after a while, and she never told anyone else the truth about the father of her only daughter, never even told her own child..._

After the telling, Portia just stared at Haymitch, so shocked beyond words that she didn't even know what to do, what to say, what to think, what to even _feel._

"Now, _sweetheart, _tell me, what's your last name?"

"Adaline," she whispered. "B-but, that... that means..."

"Right," Haymitch said, nodding. "You're my daughter."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Barely ten minutes later, Portia was walking home on the crowded Capitol streets. She suspected that the crowds were there because they wanted to get their shopping done before the Games began—when no one would want to be leaving their homes. Even though it was a summer day, it was still fairly cool outside and a light breeze blew. The sky overhead was overcast, but it looked like there were no clouds, simply as though the sky itself was painted a pale gray instead of its normal bright blue. The sun wasn't close to setting yet—she'd gone to see Haymitch shortly after she and Cinna had gotten home from the Remake Center for the day (not that she had been so focused before that); so it was still very early in the evening, early enough that neither of the tributes would've noticed Haymitch's absence for the time that she was there.

As tempted as she was to try and ignore what Haymitch had said—it didn't _really _change anything—she couldn't. Yes, it did change things, but it didn't at the same time, and, oh, it was just so confusing!

Did it change things? Yes, of course it did. This definitely put a few twists on things. Did it change who she had spent her childhood looking up to, who had risked their lives time and time again for the same cause that she was so dedicated to? No, of course not. And it certainly didn't change who was alive and who was dead and who it was that was captured (other than in the case of the two twin sisters). It just changed... their names, their past. It didn't change _who they were._

She quickened her pace a bit, eager to get away from everyone and go back home.

Yet she knew that she wouldn't be alone there, either. Cinna would ask what Haymitch had said and what would she tell him?

Wait a second... was she seriously questioning that? Wasn't _she _the one who had so recently pointed out how they never hid things from each other? But, then again, _he _hadn't seemed to have a problem with not telling _her _the truth!

Tempting as it was to not tell him, to make him know how that felt, she had made up her mind by the time she got home to tell him what had happened. She was just dying to talk to someone about it, anyways, maybe out of... what, habit?

When she got home, sure enough, it was only a few moments before Cinna inevitably asked, "So what did Haymitch say?"

Before she could even try stopping herself, she was telling him everything, and it came out in one huge jumble that even he could barely understand.

But at the end of it, he just said, "Well, do you believe him?"

"What?"

"Do you believe what he said?" he repeated.

She didn't answer right away. Whatever she had expected Cinna to say, that hadn't really been it. Then she couldn't believe that she hadn't asked the question of herself earlier. "I... I don't know," she admitted. "I mean, it fits, doesn't it?"

"From what you told me, yes," he answered. "But that doesn't necessarily mean that it's true."

She thought about it for a moment. Yes, there was always the possibility that he had been lying, but... "I don't think he would've made that up," she said quietly. "I don't know why I think that, really. It's just... everything works too perfectly, when you think about it..." She paused, then added, "And I don't see why he would tell me all that if it wasn't true. It doesn't seem like Haymitch. But... what do you think?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "Like you said, it could... it could be true. Or it might not be. There's really no way of knowing unless you talked to someone else who might know."

"But there isn't anyone else in the Capitol who would!" Portia pointed out. "Or, anyone that we could talk to, I mean."

"True," Cinna agreed. "But we could always try contacting District Thirteen if you really wanted to ask someone."

"I don't know who I would ask, though," she answered. "That's the problem. I mean, who would really know, that's still in The District? Coin?"

"That's what I would think. Be sort of hard to get someone into their system without Coin hearing about it."

Portia sighed. Clearly, they were getting nowhere. Their conversation had only looped around to the fact that the president of District Thirteen was the only person left that might have a clue about what was going on—at least, out of the people that they would potentially be able to contact—yet she might be hesitant to tell either of them anything, as well.

So that just left them with the same questions of the past, and of the future to come.


	6. What Happens Next

**6. What Happens Next**

The next time either of them went to the Training Center was the day that the tributes received their training scores. There was naturally a bit of tension at the table—Effie seemed like she would never be pleased with the information that Haymitch gave her to play up to the sponsors, and, meanwhile, the District Twelve mentor kept shooting odd glances at both of the stylists from across the table. On top of all of that, both of the tributes seemed nervous about sharing how their private sessions with the Gamemakers had gone.

During dinner, Haymitch said, "Okay, enough small talk, just how bad were you today?" He was clearly referring to the sessions during training, as the question was directed right at Katniss and Peeta.

"I don't know that it mattered," Peeta started off. "By the time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me. They were singing some kind of drinking song, I think. So, I threw around some heavy objects until they told me I could go." Though neither of the stylists doubted that what he had said about the Gamemakers was true, Portia couldn't help but think that he might've done slightly better than what he admitted to.

"And you, sweetheart?" Haymitch asked, turning to Katniss. No one could miss her scowl at his tone.

"I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers," she answered, after a bit of hesitation.

Every single person at the table stopped eating and stared at her, even Peeta. Portia could tell, from the expressions of Haymitch and Effie, that this hadn't been planned. Still, it _did _seem to say something about Katniss' potential to help with the rebellion, if nothing else.

"You what?" Effie asked. She sounded horrified, to the point where everyone else might've thought that she half-expected Peacekeepers to be barging into the dining room at any moment.

"I shot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them. In their direction. It's like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just... I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig's mouth!" Katniss explained hurriedly. It was clear then that her phase of hesitation was over. Maybe it was just her imagination, but Portia couldn't help but think that Katniss almost sounded a bit proud of her defiance of the Gamemakers.

"And what did they say?" Cinna asked carefully. There was definitely concern in his voice.

"Nothing. Or I don't know. I walked out after that."

"Without being dismissed?" Effie gasped, as if that was the most important part of the whole conversation.

"I dismissed myself," Katniss said.

"Well, that's that," Haymitch muttered, sounding unconcerned as he turned back to his food. The two stylists weren't sure if he just truly didn't care at this point, or if he thought that the issue was simply unimportant, as it couldn't be fixed, now.

"Do you think they'll arrest me?" Katniss asked suddenly. Now seemed to be the first time that she really sounded worried, though it seemed like an odd point in the conversation for that to start.

"Doubt it. Be a pain to replace you at this stage," Haymitch answered.

"What about my family? Will they punish them?" she insisted, clearly thinking of her mother and Prim.

"Don't think so. Wouldn't make much sense. See, they'd have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to have any worthwhile effect on the population. People would need to know what you did. But they can't since it's a secret, so it'd be a waste of effort. More likely they'll make your life hell in the arena," Haymitch assured her. What he said was true, certainly.

"Well, they've already promised to that to us anyway," Peeta said, almost... cheerfully. It was an odd tone to use for the statement, but Portia couldn't help but think that maybe he was just trying to add a bit of humor to the conversation.

And it worked. The conversation quickly turned to Katniss' recount of what the Gamemakers' amusing reactions had been.

But it didn't last long, once Katniss said, "I'll get a very bad score."

"Scores only matter if they're very good, no one pays attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose. People use that strategy," Portia said, trying to make it sound somewhat reassuring. Yes, what Katniss had done was dangerous, but the audience wouldn't know that.

"I hope that's how people interpret the four I'll probably get. If that. Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of yards. One almost landed on my foot," Peeta said—yet another attempt at lightening the mood.

After dinner, the group went into the sitting room to see the scores. The Careers got in a predictably high range—some of the other top scores were the ones for the girl from Five and Rue.

Peeta got an eight. _I had a feeling he was being modest, _Portia thought.

Katniss got an eleven.

"There must be a mistake. How... how could that happen?" Katniss asked. It seemed like the question was mostly directed at Haymitch. Clearly, she was just as surprised as everyone else was at her score.

_Shooting must've been pretty impressive..._

"Guess they liked your temper. They've got a show to put on. They need some players with some heat," Haymitch answered.

_Maybe Plutarch just talked the other Gamemakers into it..._

It wasn't that much later that everyone started heading off to bed—Katniss and Peeta were tired after the long day of training; Effie and Haymitch needed to be ready for preparing the tributes for their interviews the next day.

So the two stylists went home as well, unable to not feel a bit relieved that the main part of training was over.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Not that long after they'd gotten home, there was a knock on their door—Lavinia, as Cinna discovered when he answered it. She handed him the outfits from the opening ceremonies, and something else rested on top of the pile. Then there was the note:

_Outfits are being returned by the tributes. Pin is Katniss' district token—found on a green outfit she wore on the train._

After Lavinia had left, Cinna set down the two outfits and the pin by the door, to remember to bring them to the Remake Center. He couldn't help but smile when he noticed the mockingjay that comprised most of the district token. Just that was rebellious in itself.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

A bit more time passed, and soon it was time for the day of the interviews. The two stylists went to the Training Center fairly early, accompanied by the prep teams, yet were left with very few things to do other than wait. Just like the day when Peeta and Katniss had first come to the Capitol, they had to wait for the prep teams to be done with the two tributes. Portia thought that she would've preferred it if they had just been able to prepare them both back at the Remake Center—not only would it have been a lot more convenient for them, but it meant that Haymitch wouldn't have had much of a reason to be there.

Not that he was particularly seeking anyone out. In fact, Portia hadn't seen him the whole day.

When Peeta's prep team finished and deemed him ready for the interview, Portia went in to check on him.

"Do you have any plans for your interview?" she asked as she walked in.

Peeta, turning to face his stylist, seemed to debate over what to say for a minute and then answered, "Well... I was thinking of... of telling the audience something."

His constant hesitations showed just how nervous he was. She almost couldn't help but be a bit surprised at that—the same person who could charm the prep team, seem so calm during the opening ceremonies, and even seemingly win over the favor of his mentor and escort seemed to be terrified at the prospect of this interview.

"What is it you want to tell them?" she asked gently.

"I... I want to tell them that I... that I love Katniss," Peeta blurted out finally.

Once the words were out of his mouth he seemed to relax slightly. Portia wasn't all that surprised at what he had said—more at the fact that he was planning on announcing it to the whole country over anything else. She remembered Peeta's kind smile towards Katniss at the Reaping, the way he had seemed so concerned about her on that first day in the Capitol, how he was always watching her during the dinners at the Training Center...

_But... if he can barely tell me, how is he supposed to tell every person in the world?_

"That sounds like a good plan," she said, a bit absently.

"You don't sound very... surprised," Peeta noted.

"That would be because I'm not."

"Is it really that obvious?" he asked, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the carpeting.

"Pathetically obvious, honestly," she answered. "Not that that's a bad thing."

He looked up from the floor. "I guess it isn't," he agreed.

"It won't be easy in the arena though, will it?" she asked, the thought just occurring to her of how awful this all was. They were both about to be thrown in the middle of a fight to the death... how would Peeta ever be able to kill someone he loved?

"No," he answered, not saying anything more.

For the rest of the time before they had to leave, neither of them talked much of anything that was truly important, but soon enough it was time to go for the interview. "Good luck," Portia told him.

"Thanks."

Shortly after the District Twelve team had met up by the elevators, everyone was taking their places for the interviews.

They seemed to start off as normal—most of the tributes' angles were the classic ones for their districts. Glimmer and Marvel from District One were both stunningly attractive and somewhat flirty, the pair from two, Cato and Clove, were both completely ruthless, the pair from three, Evia and Jaylen, were both quiet and very intelligent... and so on and so forth.

Finally, it came time for Katniss' interview.

After she sat down in her spot, Caesar asked her, "So, Katniss, the Capitol must be quite a change from District Twelve. What's impressed you most since you arrived here?"

Katniss didn't answer for a few seconds, but then said, "The lamb stew." For some reason, it was clear to Portia just at that moment that interviews were not Katniss' specialty.

"The one with the dried plums? Oh, I eat it by the bucketful," Caesar said, turning towards the audience. "It doesn't show, does it?" A few members of the crowd called reassurances back to him.

"Now, Katniss. When you came out in the opening ceremonies, my heart actually stopped. What did you think of that costume?" Caesar asked.

Both of the District Twelve stylists smiled slightly.

"You mean after I got over my fear of being burned alive?" Katniss asked, starting to ease up a bit as everyone laughed.

"Yes. Start then," Caesar replied.

"I thought Cinna was brilliant and it was the most gorgeous costume I'd ever seen and I couldn't believe I was wearing it. I can't believe I'm wearing this, either. I mean, look at it!" Katniss said. Then she stood up and spun around in a circle, much to the delight of most of the audience.

"Oh, do that again!" said Caesar excitedly.

Katniss twirled again.

"Don't stop!"

"I have to, I'm dizzy!" Katniss said, giggling uncharacteristically. It occurred to Portia that it was probably a good thing that Katniss wasn't actually saying a lot of important things in her interview.

"Don't worry, I've got you. Can't have you following in your mentor's footsteps," Caesar said, turning back to the audience. "It's all right. She's safe with me."

_Somehow, the word "safe" just doesn't belong in an interview taking place the night before the Hunger Games..._

"So, how about that training score. E-lev-en. Give us a hint what happened in there," Caesar said.

"Um... all I can say is, I think it was a first," Katniss stammered out awkwardly.

"You're killing us. Details. Details," Caesar begged, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Katniss wasn't going to say anything about her training score.

"I'm not supposed to talk about it, right?" Katniss asked, turning to face the Gamemakers.

_Yeah, especially when she shot an arrow at them_, Portia thought. The interview seemed to be going next to nowhere—though Katniss hadn't said anything stupid by not saying anything of any importance, she wasn't exactly winning over the crowd, either.

An answer to her question came from the Gamemakers' direction.

"Thank you. Sorry, my lips are sealed," Katniss said, sounding relieved.

"Let's go back then, to the moment they called your sister's name at the reaping. And you volunteered. Can you tell us about her?" Caesar seemed to have finally brought up one of the few things that Katniss enjoyed talking about.

"Her name's Prim. She's just twelve. And I love her more than anything." Katniss' words hung over the crowd, which was silent now in the intensity of the moment. The two stylists weren't quite sure if it was Katniss' tone or what she had said that was keeping the audience quiet.

"What did she say to you? After the reaping?" Caesar asked.

"She asked me to try really hard to win."

"And what did you say?" he prompted gently.

"I swore I would."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Peeta's interview quickly got rid of the solemn mood from Katniss'. Most of it seemed to be a comedy act, with both him and Caesar coming up with things that made the audience laugh constantly.

_He's a natural at this, _Portia noted to herself. _You'd think he could get paid for it._

Finally, though, the mood became a bit more serious again, also towards the end of the interview, when Caesar asked Peeta if he had a girlfriend back home.

"Handsome lad like you," he said. "There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?"

Peeta just sighed, sounding a bit sad, and said, "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't even know I was alive until the reaping."

"She have another fellow?" asked Caesar.

"I don't know, but a lot of boys like her," Peeta said.

"So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?" Caesar pointed out encouragingly.

_Not going to work..._

"I don't think it's going to work out. Winning... won't help in my case." Peeta sounded straight out distressed now.

_Just say it! You're running out of time! _Portia wanted to scream at him. _Say it!_

"Why ever not?" Caesar asked, and Peeta blushed.

Hesitantly, he got out:

"Because... because... she came here with me."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

As the District Twelve team stepped back on to their floor of the Training Center, they found Peeta laying on the floor in a pile of pottery shards.

"What's going on?" Effie asked, sounding panicked. "Did you fall?"

"After she shoved me," Peeta answered as he was helped to his feet again.

_Oh, great..._

"Shoved him?" Haymitch clearly wasn't happy.

"This was your idea, wasn't it? Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?" Katniss shot back.

"It was my idea," Peeta said, pulling some of the shards out of his hands. "Haymitch just helped me with it."

"Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!"

Something made Portia think that Peeta might've been lying. She couldn't quite picture Peeta casually running the idea by Haymitch and getting approval.

"You _are _a fool," Haymitch countered. "Do you think he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own."

"He made me look weak!"

"He made you look desirable! And let's face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You're all they're talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!" Haymitch said dramatically.

Everyone there knew that it was true. The Capitol audience would completely buy into the star-crossed lover angle and obsess over it. Peeta's interview had done nothing to harm either of them.

There was a bit more debate until Katniss, starting to give in to everyone's claims, said, "I should have been told, so I didn't look so stupid."

"No, your reaction was perfect. If you'd known, it wouldn't have read as real," Portia assured her. It was already evident that Katniss wasn't a very good actor, so the situation she was in had to be real for there to be any dramatic effect.

"She's just worried about her boyfriend," Peeta said bitterly.

_Didn't he say in the interview that he didn't know whether or not she was with someone? _Peeta, then, had lied very smoothly.

"I don't have a boyfriend," Katniss protested.

"Whatever. But I bet he's smart enough to know a bluff when he sees it. Besides _you _didn't say you loved _me_. So what does it matter?" It was a good point and no one could deny it.

"After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him, too?" Katniss asked, the question directed at no one in particular.

"I did," Portia said. "The way you avoided looking at the cameras, the blush."

Everyone tried to reassure her that she'd reacted perfectly.

"I'm sorry I shoved you," Katniss said to Peeta finally.

"Doesn't matter. Although it's technically illegal."

_What're they going to do about it? Put them in the Hunger Games?_

"Are your hands okay?"

"They'll be all right." His voice was flat, obviously concealing pain.

The group went to the dining room to eat dinner, but it wasn't long before Peeta's hands started bleeding too heavily and Portia had to lead him to the ground floor of the Training Center for treatment.

Underground, of course, there was the hospital that the victor would be in after the Games. But on the main floor of the Training Center, behind one of the doors, was another medical facility that was only ever used if a tribute got injured during their time in the Capitol. That was a rare occurrence, especially outside of training.

Portia knocked lightly on the door, hearing the slight buzzing sound as it was unlocked and then pushing it open. It closed just a bit too loudly with a slam.

She and Peeta found themselves in a small, cramped room. The ceiling seemed just a bit too low and the lighting oddly dim. There were a few chairs along one wall to the left of the door, and opposite them, a desk with a person neither of them recognized sitting behind it, looking bored.

"What're you here for?" The words came out in a low mumble.

Already feeling irritated at the obvious and unconcealed lack of concern, Portia answered, "Well..." Realizing that saying what had really happened was probably a bad idea, she decided on: "Peeta tripped and fell into a vase, which cut his hands."

"Klutz." The word was obviously meant to be said clearly, to be heard; they could tell just by the way she looked up while speaking. Yet, the vowel seemed a bit too drawn out, and, unless they were hallucinating, the word was heavily slurred.

Anger rising quickly, Portia said, "If you're not going to help us, then don't try."

She gestured for Peeta to follow her and, really having no clue where she was going, led him down one of the hallways that the room allowed access to. A slightly opened door labeled "5" looked promising enough, and she pushed it the rest of the way open.

Peeta promptly sat on the edge of the cot in the room while Portia started going through the medical supplies. She'd seen most of the sort in the hospital of Thirteen, maybe under slightly different names, but the same thing nonetheless.

The treatment didn't take long, and soon they were walking back towards the elevators in relative silence; there simply wasn't a lot to be said.

"Well―that could've gone better," Peeta commented finally.

"How did you think she'd react?"

"I don't know, actually." He shrugged. "Not like that, I guess. Just thought that she might've realized what I was trying to do."

Silence took over again for a few moments, before she changed the subject. "Peeta," she started suddenly, as if scared she was going to forget what she meant to say, "This might sound like a weird question, but―did Haymitch say anything… odd, to you―on the train, that is?" She nearly instantly regretted the question when she saw the quizzical expression on his face. Now he'd want to know why she asked.

He thought for a moment. "No, not really."

That ended the conversation.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Back on the District Twelve floor, the recap of the interviews passed without much excitement. There wasn't much to analyze from most of what was discussed―no one really seemed to be hiding something; the angles were fairly clear in most of them and the conversation never strayed far.

Finally, the last of the Games-related footage ended for the night, with a note about being sure to tune in at ten o'clock the next morning.

While Effie and Haymitch said their good-byes to the tributes―_no; kids, not tributes_―the two stylists exchanged a glance with all the worry and anxiety held within. He gave her hand a warm, quick squeeze while the others' eyes were still averted.

Once the mentor and escort had gone, Katniss left the room without particularly saying goodnight to anyone. Portia couldn't exactly blame her―it was easy to want this all over and done with, without drawing it out any longer than necessary.

A few minutes later she found herself alone with Peeta once again, and with nothing left to be said. What did you say to someone who could very well be dead in the morning?

The thought was harsh, but true nonetheless. Both of the competitors from District Twelve could be dead in a day. In less time than that. Already out of this, out of the Games, out of the war―forever. All hope would be gone for at least another year, and maybe longer. It had taken so much to just get _this _far… how many more lives would be lost, how many more years would it be, before there was another candidate if they failed?

No. They couldn't fail. Not yet.

_Just let them live. Please; they're only children… they don't deserve this…_

She wasn't really supposed to care, she knew. But didn't that make them just as bad as the Capitol? Worse? At least the Capitol hadn't _purposely_ reaped an innocent twelve-year-old girl for their own causes…

It was a contradiction. _Be willing to die to make sure that the plan succeeds; but don't care about the actual children involved. Right. That makes _perfect _sense._

She was so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn't even noticed Peeta was talking to her. "Something wrong?" he asked her.

"Sorry," she said, snapping out of the daze. "What were you saying?"

Peeta shook his head slightly. "Just asked if you had any advice."

She said the first thing that came to mind: "Don't do anything stupid," and Peeta laughed. "And do what Haymitch said. Stay alive."

He looked hesitant to answer.

"I know what you're thinking," she said, her voice suddenly seeming a bit exasperated. "But if your… _plans_… go wrong, or something changes―"

"Then what?"

"You could still win," she finished quietly. She knew that he wasn't the one that was meant to, and that he didn't even want to be the one alive at the end of the Games, anyways, but it just seemed so wrong that he had already counted himself out… "You shouldn't just give up."

He seemed like he might argue the point, so she quickly added, "I know that you'd rather die than get to be the one who lives. Believe me, I understand that. But let's just _say _that halfway through the Games something happens and _you're _the one who's still alive… you can't just let yourself die. There are people who care about you, Peeta; your family―"

"They don't."

She ignored him. "―and Cinna and me and the prep teams and Haymitch and Effie―in their own sort of way―and I'm sure there are more than I'm just not thinking of. Do you get my point?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, clearly discouraged by the conversation and staring at the ground.

"Look," she started again, thinking that he hadn't understood her intentions. "Just promise me that you'll still try to keep yourself alive."

"I will."

It wasn't enough. "Promise?"

"Promise."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

The night passed slowly. Cinna had given up on sleep first, opting for pacing the main room before it was even one o'clock. It took her a bit longer―tossing and turning until it was almost three. Finally she felt too restless to stay in bed and went to join him.

By that time he was settled in a corner of the couch, his eyes lightly closed. He looked exhausted, she noticed, and wondered why she hadn't noted it earlier as she sat next to him.

"Couldn't sleep either, darling?" he asked her, his voice ever-so-slightly teasing.

"Not really," she mumbled, curling up against his side and feeling his arm go around her.

"Hmm," he agreed.

After a few moments, she said, "You seem tired," and reached up to trace the dark rings under his eyes.

His hand covered hers, gentle but insistent, stilling her. "I'm fine," he said softly, and withdrew his hand, indicating for her to do the same. She sighed but did so, resting her head on his shoulder.

He brushed his hand against hers, clearly an apologetic gesture for being so curt with her. "I'm sorry," he offered quietly. "I know you're only trying to help."

She laced her fingers through his and squeezed gently. "I know."

He smiled fondly at her and ducked his head to give her a quick, firm kiss. She snuggled further into him, content, and his arms drew her closer. For a few moments they were quiet, and she could feel his breathing, his steady, reassuring heartbeat.

"So," he started in a murmur, sounding a bit reluctant, "the Games are tomorrow."

"Really?" she asked him, amused. "I had no idea." It was easier to joke about it than to accept that the inevitable topic had finally come up. There was no getting around it.

She was vaguely aware of him drawing one hand up her back to tangle through her hair, coaxing a different answer from her. Quietly, she told him about the conversation she'd had with Peeta before leaving the Training Center, about the thoughts, the doubts, that had come to her; and he told her about what was worrying him, too.

By the end of the first exchange she could scarcely keep her eyes open, sleep pulling at her mind. He seemed to be able to tell, not quite awake enough either to suggest going to bed, but shifting them so they could lay side-by-side, pulling her close to him and lulling her back to sleep with murmured endearments and reassurances.

The peaceful, quiet night would pass, and the morning would bring the Games.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

She woke cradled in his arms, the room still blanketed in darkness. "Portia." His voice was soft, and she felt a warm, gentle hand smoothing her hair away from her face.

"Mm?"

"Time to get up, sweetheart."

She groaned, burying her face in his neck. "It's not even light out," she informed him, as if he didn't know. "The Games don't start till ten. How much time can it possibly take―"

"Not my decision," he reminded her.

She drew back from him slightly, watching his eyes for some sign of hurt or pain or worry or… _something. _The attempt was lost; she shifted out of his grasp and went to shut the alarm still going off in the near distance.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

The elevator brought them up to the District Twelve floor of the Training Center just before dawn. The whole level was still quiet, as its only previous occupants were still asleep. Cinna gave her a small smile and let go of her hand as they reached the doors to their tributes' rooms.

Peeta appeared at once after she knocked, looking understandably tired, yet alert, already on-edge. _Good, _she thought. _He'll need all the focus he can get._

It didn't take long to reach the ladder to the hovercraft, and, once safely inside, the tension seemed to relax a little―only slightly, but some.

"Are you planning on eating breakfast, or are you just going to sit there and stare out the window the whole time?" Portia asked.

Peeta, still not looking at her, answered flatly, "Maybe."

Not feeling awake enough to lecture him, she had one of the Capitol attendants bring a tray of food and placed it on the miniature fold-up table in front of him. He sighed, sounding frustrated, shaking his head; but he seemed to give in and started on the food anways.

They arrived in the Launch Room shortly, and the prep time seemed to pass in a blur until there wasn't a lot left to do before the Games. "Sure everything fits all right?" she asked nervously for the fourth time, adjusting the drape of his jacket.

"Yeah… thanks."

She took a step back, giving everything yet another final check. "Stretch or run around or something," she ordered. "Just to be sure."

He did, and reported that everything was fine.

For the next several minutes Peeta sat and stared at the glass tube surrounding the plate that would bring him up to the arena, and Portia paced along one wall of the room, feeling too anxious to stay still. She'd seemingly worked up the energy to lecture, and was doing so: "If you _dare _go anywhere _near _the Cornucopia, it won't matter if you make it out of the arena or not, because I will kill you, myself." He smiled slightly. "You have to run, and keep moving for the whole first day. Go the opposite direction that everyone else is. Get as far away from any other living thing as you possibly can, and keep going until something is physically preventing you from going another foot."

She inhaled sharply. "Then you have to hide in the best spot you can find, nowhere obvious. You'll make it through the first night without supplies; the Gamemakers won't try anything so soon, either. Just stay out of sight. Try and get some sleep, as much as you can. If you see or hear anyone nearby, don't make a sound. Don't attack them. And don't ally with them―that's the worst thing you could do. You _can't _trust anyone in the arena, you understand that?" This wasn't really like her; but the words kept coming.

"The second day try to travel on a bit further, if you can. Make sure no one can follow you. Find somewhere you could stay for a while―somewhere with a water source and food. Check the area for anything dangerous, and if there's anything, keep moving until there isn't. Don't give yourself cholera or food poisoning, either―boil the water if you can, and don't eat anything you're not sure about. _Do not _take any stupid risks. If you do―"

"If I do, then what?" he asked, holding back a laugh at the onslaught of last minute advice.

"If you do," she started, stopping her pacing to watch him, "then you should consider yourself lucky if you don't make it out of the arena, because that way you won't have to answer to _me_."

Still trying not to laugh, Peeta answered, "I'll be sure to not do anything 'stupid'."

"Good," she said, resuming the pacing. "That should get you through the next day or so, if you plan everything right. Keep all of your supplies with you―always―be ready to run. Always have a 'plan two'. If there are no deaths two days in a row, do _something_ that'll get the audience's interest, to keep the Gamemakers away from messing with wherever you are in the arena. Don't give them a reason to hate you."

By now she felt as if she were summarizing thirteen years of training, applied to the arena.

"Great," Peeta said. "Anything else?"

"If and when it starts to come down to the final few, people will start trying to hunt you down. Do whatever you have to so you get out of real confrontation. Don't go to any special events—feasts or whatnot. Lead people into traps or somewhere with another good competitor; if the Gamemakers send mutts out, run to wherever you think someone else is before you really try escaping so they'll get caught in it. You can ally with someone in the last few, just be careful. Make sure to suggest keeping watches―casually, though―and take the first watch. Kill them in their sleep. Do _something_."

Finally he brought up the inevitable. "You know my plan isn't―"

"I know," she interrupted. "Just think about it."

He seemed too tired to argue the point any further and leant against the back of the couch he was on.

She was trying to figure out where that whole speech had come from. Yes, she was worried beyond belief―of course, she'd come to care about both of the tributes from District Twelve, especially Peeta.

The call came, saying that it was time for the tributes to launch. Not having a lot left to be said, she took Peeta's hand, helping him up and walking with him just to the edge of the tribute plate. Then she tilted his chin up, smiling gently at him. "Just remember this: few people have ever meant as much to me as you do, _Peeta Mellark_."

He shifted to stand on his plate as the glass started to close. "Thank you, Portia." With that, the plate started to rise, up and out of her view. Once completely out of sight, she turned and started to walk out of the Launch Room.

And shortly afterwards, words echoed from overhead: "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"


	7. To Be Something Else

**7. To Be Something Else**

Twenty-four children stood on their metal plates and took in the arena as they prepared to run, either towards the bounty of supplies before them, or towards the wilderness. Either way they chose, it was still almost certain death.

As the cameras locked momentarily on Katniss' face, the two stylists watched as she shifted her position so her gaze fell on something near the golden Cornucopia, glinting in the sun. A silver bow and a sheath of arrows. The cameras relocated, zooming in on Peeta this time, to catch his reaction. He looked straight at Katniss, clearly sensing what she was about to do, and shook his head very slightly. But she didn't listen. _Don't do it. Don't go for the weapon, Katniss..._

Barely a few seconds later, the gong went off, the camera angles shifted yet again to show all of the action, and as the tributes all raced forwards, Katniss hesitated, missing her chance to go into the midst of the battle with a chance of escape. Instead, she sprinted straight ahead towards the supplies right in front of her, but then collided with the boy from District Nine. They wrestled over the supplies shortly, but then the boy collapsed on the ground with a knife in his back―dead. Clove, the one who had thrown that knife, didn't pursue Katniss for long as she raced into the woods.

To both of the stylists' shock, Peeta, of all people, had thrown himself right into the midst of the action. _You idiot! _Portia wanted to yell at him. _Did you not hear a single word I said to you? _Getting his hands on a few weapons quickly, he took down the boy from Four―a Career―and the girl from Ten.

Most of the remaining coverage was of the bloodbath, where eleven tributes died. Eleven innocent children who were doomed from the start. They never did anything to deserve this. The cameras also occasionally showed the other tributes like Katniss, who was alive, uninjured, armed with supplies, and on the move in the woods.

Peeta was one of the last people left at the Cornucopia, along with the Careers. "Impressive, Lover Boy," Glimmer snarled at him. "I see that you're still alive."

Yet none of the other tributes made a move to kill him, except for Clove, who already had her knife raised when Cato held her back. "No; don't kill him. What would you say about teaming up with us?"

"What are you doing?" Clove spat at him.

Not answering her or any of the looks he was getting from everyone else, Cato turned back to Peeta. "Well?"

_He's really going to get it, now._

It was clear that he thought about it first, but, not eager to get killed, answered, "You mean... join your alliance?"

"What else would it mean?"

"Sure, then, I accept," Peeta answered smoothly.

"He's gone insane," Portia said aloud as Claudius Templesmith started commenting on Peeta's answer. "Completely insane."

"You didn't know what he was planning?" Cinna asked her.

"No; of course not! I must've spent twenty minutes lecturing him right before the Games and did he listen? No, he―" She cut herself off at the slightly amused look on Cinna's face before retrieving a pillow from the edge of the couch and throwing it at him. "Not funny."

"I know," he said softly, an apology. He squeezed her hand.

"Maybe the arena'll knock some sense into them," she muttered, leaving the room.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Later that day, the message came.

She was shaking just looking at the paper, the words in neat handwriting. There was no air in the room; she was being trapped, suffocated. Time seemed to stop, nothing else important as the edges of her vision faded, only able to process the words in front of her.

She felt Cinna easing the paper out of her grip, scanning the words quickly. "This isn't good," he muttered finally.

Part of her wanted to come up with some sort of response. "Obviously" or something similar, but she couldn't quite remember how to form the words. "What do we do?" she got out finally. The Capitol hadn't forgotten about them―not yet.

"We go. We see what they want." His voice was calm, soothing.

"But we already know that!" she shot back at him. The paper had been clear—they were wanted back in the Capitol Building the next day. "We know what they want," she elaborated quietly, voice trembling.

He hesitated, then said, "Not necessarily. It might not..." He saw the fear written clearly in her eyes and sighed. "It might not be like last time."

She wanted to believe him, but couldn't do it. "You know better than that. So, what? We give up?"

Silence for a few moments, and then, "Listen to me." He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "We can talk to... someone, Plutarch maybe, if you really think it'd do any good. But I don't think it will."

"No," she agreed, sighing. "It won't."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

The next day came all too quickly. The tension in the air was so thick that they could practically feel it weighing down on them, trapping and suffocating. For a long time before they had to leave, there was quiet, moments spent wrapped in the touch of the other.

Finally, the time came. He gave her one last kiss, and, together, they headed for the Capitol Building.

The day outside was plain―sunny and mild in temperature―but the streets were far less occupied than usual, except for the areas where the Games played on large public screens. But there was very little going on, and the crowd's interest was obviously fading.

She hated to admit it, but at that moment, the Games seemed to be the least of their concerns.

The front doors of the Capitol Building loomed before them, and the glass slid open silently, welcoming them inside.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

In the same bleak room as the last experience, two of the Peacekeepers were holding her back, the other standing between her and Cinna. "Where were you before you came to the Capitol?"

She couldn't think of an answer to give, so she didn't say anything, staring blankly at him as if she didn't understand the words.

In answer, the guard turned, brandishing the metal device that she recognized from her last time in the Capitol Building.

Feeling unable to avert her eyes, her only thought was that she _didn't want to watch this, _didn't want to be here; she wanted to be _anywhere _else…

At the angle, she couldn't see what the guard was doing, couldn't see the press of the metal, but she didn't have to. The agony was written clearly across Cinna's face, in the way he tried so desperately to move back to lighten the pressure. He cried out, but the sound quickly reduced to his screaming as the pain increased. And all the while, the guard kept glancing at her, his message clear. _This is your fault. And all you have to do is answer the question._

"Cinna," she whispered, the word escaping unthinkingly. Tears gathered quickly in her eyes and flowed down her face, dripping onto the floor. She knew _exactly _what that amount of pain felt like, how unbearable it was, and didn't even want to think of him experiencing it.

She could see the slightest amount of tension in him ease as he tried to inhale when the Peacekeeper turned back to her. "Where were you before you came to the Capitol?" At that moment, nothing sounded better than answering, ending this. Her eyes fell on Cinna's face and the words froze before she could say them; she tried to answer but no sound came out. The tears flowed faster now, and she couldn't remember how to breathe.

The guard turned again, and before she could protest Cinna's screams were filling the air.

"Where were you before you came to the Capitol?" It was hard to tell which one of them the question was directed at, but neither spoke.

The whish and crack of a whip resounded through the air, and then the restraints on him were released and he fell to the ground, searing, blinding pain taking over. Another lash, and another, and several more. She struggled harder against the Peacekeepers, trying to reach him. Too disoriented and not conscious enough to try and block the attacks, he was laying limp on the floor, defenseless as the whip cracked down again and again and _again._

She couldn't take it one second longer. "Cinna!" For just a second the Peacekeepers were off guard and she managed to wrench herself free, falling over him as the whip came down again. She cried out at the sudden pain but then she was being roughly pulled back, away from him.

Helpless tears ran down her face. "You'll kill him!" she screamed at the Peacekeepers, struggling harder only to have their grip on her tighten.

The other guard, now wielding the same metal device from earlier, dragged Cinna up by the shirt collar, pressing it against his shoulder before letting him drop to the floor again. The rest of the world faded away; she could focus only on the low, agonized sound that fell from his lips and his face, tight with pain and eyes closed.

"Cinna!" She shrieked his name, partly hoping that it would draw him back out of the daze of pain, that he'd hear her and just be able to hold on for _that _much longer…

The sobs wracked her body as the guard approached her, asking only one question: "Where were you two before you came to the Capitol?"

"D-District Thirteen," she choked out, trying to gasp in air.

"And who was it that got you into the city?"

For a few moments she couldn't answer between the lack of air and the tears, the words were just right _there _but she couldn't quite communicate them. There was a sharp stab of pain and she yelped, trying to flinch back but unable to. "P-Plu-tarch H-Heavens-Heavensbee," she stammered, trying to calm the shaking.

"And when is the next planned raid on the Capitol's security system?"

A split second passed when Cinna's eyes caught hers―she didn't know how much he could hear of what she was saying, but he'd find out eventually, find out that she was betraying _everything _they'd ever believed in…

"I-It's in… in S-September. The s-seventh." Fresh tears flooded her eyes, making the room swim in front of her and slip in and out of focus.

The guard started to walk back towards Cinna, and before she could think she heard herself pleading. "P-_please_, don't…"

A smirk crossed his face before he gestured to the other Peacekeepers, who released her and followed the other out the door.

She scrambled to the other side of the room, kneeling by Cinna's side. Her hand rested on the side of his face before trailing down to his neck, frantically searching for a pulse. And, yes, it was there―scarcely noticeable, but there.

The sheer relief brought the sobs back, and she buried her face in his neck for just a moment, trying to cling to a shred of control on the fragile situation. He groaned, shifting slightly. "… Portia…" His voice was weak, but just hearing it made her heart leap.

"C-Cinna?" she whimpered, drawing away from him. She gently brushed a few stray tears off his face, trying to smile.

There was a light pressure on her shoulder as he tugged her down to lie next to him. "Stay with me," he murmured, the words clearly strained, and she wondered how he was still conscious at all.

She gently rubbed his back with one hand, avoiding the areas where the whip had fallen, her other arm draped loosely over his waist. His eyes were tightly closed, breathing still unsteady.

Glancing over him quickly, she muttered to herself, "We need to get you home."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

She pulled the curtains tightly closed against the harsh mid-morning sunlight, leaving the room in relative darkness. Sitting on the side of the bed again, she sighed, watching Cinna sleep restlessly. The damp cloth on his forehead had slid slightly out of place, and she reached to push it back, then removed it when she noted that it was no longer cold.

Most of the medical treatment she'd given him last night wasn't going to show much effect; when he'd woken early that morning she had just barely managed to coax a bit more medicine and food into him before he drifted off again. Now he was still asleep, and she couldn't think of much more to do for him except let him rest.

She rose and went to the main room to check on the Games―Katniss was looking for water―safe, if dehydrated―and Peeta was at the Careers' camp. Without a lot of action to be seen, the commentators were still trying to direct people's attention to―"The star-crossed lovers of District Twelve," Portia said to herself, matching Cladius Templesmith's words as the cameras focused again on a split-screen showing both of the tributes.

Hearing Cinna stir, she lowered the volume on the television and went back into the bedroom, again sitting just by his side. "Hey," she said softly, noting that he was definitely awake. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than I did yesterday," he mumbled, shifting to look up at her.

"Good." She pulled the blanket securely over him and kissed his forehead, letting her hand rest lightly on his shoulder. "Anything I can get you?"

He shook his head, reaching up to cover her hand with his. His eyes fell closed again and he seemed to relax a bit more for just a moment. Then he started to try and sit up, saying, "I feel like I should be doing something a bit more productive―"

She gave him a gentle push back down onto the bed, cutting him off. "No; just relax for a while. It's what's best for you now." Her voice was soft, but it was clear that the words weren't a suggestion.

He sighed. "Yes, _Soldier Adaline._"

She smiled a bit at the sarcastic answer, touching his face. "You just hate it when I'm right."

He laughed weakly. "I do when you're telling me to not do anything. Gets boring, you know."

"I'm sure it does," she said, trying to keep the light-hearted tone of the conversation. For just a while, even if it was for only these few minutes, they could forgot, or at least try to, and pretend that the Games and the war and the cruelty of the Capitol were all just part of a bad dream; something they could wake up from that would disappear in the light of a new day.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Early the next morning, they caught sight of what was going on in the Games—an enormous, raging wildfire, specifically engineered to track down tributes and bring them all together to fight. Everything had been quiet lately―too quiet for the Gamemakers' liking.

Katniss was instantly out of her tree and running, away from the flames and towards what only the Gamemakers knew about. Somehow, it was just then, just a second after the cameras had flashed to the Career pack that the inspiration for this fire dawned on the two of them. The Careers, usually seeming so brave in the face of danger, were not about to take any chances with this new threat, and were racing straight for the lake, all seeming positively terrified...

_"Should I be scared?" _

_"Terrified." _

For some reason, it was that one memory, that one conversation and the underlying fear in Peeta's eyes that made it clear, at least, for Portia. The fire wasn't just a randomly selected attack of the Gamemakers. There was inspiration for it. Inspiration that laid in the District Twelve costumes for the opening ceremonies―the ones that _they _had made.

Neither of them acknowledged the realization aloud; but, rather, it hung tensely in the air between them, unspoken. _Why do they do these things? Take things like innocent costumes and turn them into catastrophes that can ruin people's lives?_

Even as the Careers made it back to their camp, the feeling lingered. Katniss continued trying to dodge fireballs―_left, right; duck, jump―_slowly but surely making her way through the woods, across the line of wildfire that was taking over the arena, flushing all the tributes out of their hiding places. _Duck, left, duck, right, jump. _

She glanced at Cinna next to her and could see the pain written clearly in his eyes, expression blank and unregistering.

Finally it seemed as if he couldn't stand it for one more second, and he stood, not saying a word, and started to stalk off. "Cinna…" She reached out for him, only to hear the slam of the bedroom door closing.

She went after him, the doorknob to their room slipping from her grip and hitting the wall opposite. He was pacing furiously, looking about ready to kill someone. She could see all the signs of his shut-downs; his hands were clenched into fists by his sides and his eyes were set on the floor, glaring.

"Cinna," she said, her voice strained and quiet.

"WHAT?" he spat out, whirling to face her. "What could you _possibly _have to say?" His voice was so far above its normal, quiet volume and so cold that she wouldn't have recognized it if he wasn't looking right at her.

She took a small step towards him, taking one of his hands in hers. "Listen to me," she said softly, able to feel how hard he was shaking.

It took a moment but she felt him shift his hand to grip hers tightly―a bit _too _tightly, she thought. Still, she spoke, quietly. "I know what you're thinking. But this isn't your fault. It isn't either of ours."

He jerked his hand away from hers and took a step back, shaking his head. "Of course it is," he snarled. "What else would have given them the idea?" He turned away from her, rubbing his hand over his face. "Great Panem," he muttered. "What've we done?"

"Nothing," she whispered, only to reassure him.

"How did we let this happen?" he snapped, voice rising again as he turned again.

"Hush." She touched his cheek, stroking his temples. His eyes fell closed, but he still seemed to be tense―he was completely rigid and still under her touch, breathing shaky.

A choked sob fell from his lips, and then his warm, strong arms were wrapped around her, his face buried in her hair. She pulled him closer, holding him and running one hand over his back. He gave up and let the tears come, the sobs wracking his body with enough force to give him an even worse headache.

This wasn't normal; he didn't break down like this. He was the calm one, the one who could see that things were going to turn out all right, not the one who shut down when they didn't. Maybe it was just the stress of the last two weeks finally hitting him.

She felt a slight pang, seeing how upset he was. "Shh; everything's fine. Everything's going to be fine."

"No," he choked out. "We… we made them… go… go into… th-the Games, and… we… gave the… G-Gamemakers the… idea… for h-how to… to… to kill them, and…"

"Shh," she soothed, gently rubbing his shoulders. "Shh…"

Finally he seemed to calm enough to speak properly and drew back from her, eyes set on hers. "We sent them to the Games, Portia."

"No," she argued softly. "We didn't. We voted against it, remember?"

"We didn't _really _protest, either." Somehow his voice was still gentle.

"There wasn't much we could do. And besides, we didn't create the Hunger Games. We didn't tell the Gamemakers to start that fire. We didn't―" She stopped when she felt his hand brushing against her lips, hushing her.

"Maybe not. But you can't tell me that this isn't at least partially our fault."

She was ready to give up then, to say, _Fine. Be noble and self-blaming and miserable, then, and see if I care! _

Just then, one particular line came from the television: "Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire, burns on."

Curious, she walked back into the main room and watched the flickering, fading image on the otherwise black screen―Katniss and Peeta, alight with the synthetic fire in the opening ceremonies.

It quickly cut back to the Games.

"See? They're practically admitting it." Cinna's voice from behind her slowly brought reality back to her. She blinked and shook her head, snapping out of her thoughts, of the focus on the flames, _too _similar to the ones in the arena…

She didn't have anything to say to that.

**. . . . . . . . . .**

That evening, a siren was played from the television―the one that meant that something important was happening in the Games. For some, that meant automatic excitement and eagerness to see what was going on, but not for the District Twelve stylists. They were already thinking about what it was that had gone wrong. Neither of them had to wait long for an answer, although it was still long enough to build up a certain amount of dread and anxiety. The Careers had found Katniss by the stream she was resting at. But not quite, because by a miracle of chance, even with all of the burns she had from the fire, she was high up in a tree by the time the six of them reached where she was. "How's everything with you?" Katniss called down cheerfully, uncharacteristically, as they all arrived.

"Well enough. Yourself?" Cato asked, clearly surprised by her response but not questioning it just yet.

"It's been a bit warm for my taste," she replied, with a hint of irony. "The air's better up here. Why don't you come on up?"

_What is she doing? Is she insane? _

"Think I will," Cato answered, and he started to climb the tree a few moments later. Katniss climbed higher and higher, but it wasn't necessary, as Cato fell to the ground when the branch that he was stepping on cracked. Shortly afterwards, Glimmer, the girl from District One, tried climbing, but also failed and went back down.

_What now? They can't kill her while she's up there, but she can't stay put forever... _

"Oh, let her stay up there. It's not like she's going anywhere. We'll deal with her in the morning," Peeta said. He was clearly stalling for time for Katniss, and this was obvious to the audience, though not to the Careers, which was the important part. Katniss seemed somewhat oblivious to the meaning behind his answer.

The cameras cut to show a tree nearby. At first, it was hard to see anything, but then the cameras zoomed in on tiny little Rue, poking her hand out from the leaves to point to something in Katniss' tree, which was then displayed on the screen―a tracker jacker nest. The screen quickly moved away to show the anthem playing, but there were no deaths and only half of the screen showed the familiar Capitol seal. The other half was showing Katniss up in her tree, because she was trying to saw the nest off. When you looked straight down, you could see that the Careers were almost right at the point where the nest would hit if it went flying towards the ground. _She'll kill all of them! Even Peeta..._

As the anthem stopped, Katniss was forced to cease her sawing, much to the relief of the stylists. She climbed back down to her sleeping bag, where a pot of burn medicine was waiting for her, and applied some of it before she fell asleep. Afterwards, the only thing that Portia said was: "It's about time that Haymitch sent something, anyways."

**. . . . . . . . . .**

With the dawn came another wail of the siren―this time, Katniss had just finished sawing off the nest.

_Oh, no... now she's really done it… Just run, Peeta; there's no point now… _

The Careers were mostly smart enough to sprint for the lake, and most made it with few injuries, but almost all of them had at least one tracker jacker sting. Rue had gotten off fairly easily―according to what the commentators were saying, Katniss had warned her about what she was going to do and she'd had a good head start on just about everyone else.

But three of the insects had managed to get Katniss before she'd gotten rid of the nest, and it was clear that she was beginning to lose consciousness and hallucinate, as she stumbled around in the woods below where she'd previously been. Cato was starting to head back towards where Katniss was, but Peeta was about to beat him to it.

Hearts racing, the two stylists could only watch as Katniss got out of the clearing in time, but Peeta was left, alone, to take on Cato. The battle went on for what seemed like forever but was really probably only a few minutes, and Peeta was left in a mud bank with a severe gash on his leg―injured, but alive―while Cato made it back to the Careers' camp.

_Oh, Peeta..._

**. . . . . . . . . .**

For days, nothing seemed to happen.

Nothing ever did; not until it was _too late_.


End file.
